And who is my neighbor?
The cloud-occluded sky, the stone facade, the cracked cornices, the chipped concrete steps, the snapped rake handle, the hobbled cat: all were gray. What passed for a lawn had gone dormant. The stray limped across the dead turf, undeterred by its injury, to join a calico sprawled by the foundation. The low morning sun struggled to cast shadows through the blanket of stratus. The curbs were lined with cars, but the sidewalks were empty. Whether the neighborhood was abandoned, forsaken, or sleepy was a matter of perspective.
A procession of three vehicles turned onto the street. A passenger van lagged behind. They parked successively farther from a brick duplex. Inside, while men and boys were dressing and women were loitering around the television, no one noticed the arrival. Outside, five women exited their cars. While in higher grossing zip codes their adult children dined out for breakfast and their husbands consumed sports highlights, these women set foot on land foreign to them.
The five wore clothes they were willing to discard. Those with long hair had tied it up or covered. Cosmetics went untouched during the morning’s preparations. They brought armfuls of cleaning supplies and sundry intentions: to renew, to do good, to work hard, to make an impact, to be a light unto the world. They came to sanitize. They came to serve. They came to absolve themselves for their unmerited privileges. They came duty-bound: to those who have less, to those with whom they labor, and to their God who has commanded them go forth and make disciples of all the nations.
Five white Protestant Americans came to aid ten black Muslim Africans. They came in ignorance of Somalia, of its history and tribulations. Two of the five could find the country on a map; one of the five could name its capital. What they knew of Islam they learned from nightly news and reductive remarks in Sunday School.
Before, ten black Muslim Africans came to be spared further indignity. They came in ignorance of the United States, of its diversity and obstructions. None of the ten had a credit report; one of the ten had interviewed professionally. What they knew of Christianity they learned from baseless rumor and al Shabaab’s propaganda.
All traced their lineage to Abraham. They possessed the same bodily senses and mental faculties. Their DNA sequences were nearly identical. Each attested to the historicity of Jesus of Nazareth and his virgin birth. They shared concerns about the others’ eternal fates. They shared the same time. They would share the same space.
***
Although the volunteers had been invited by one of the inhabitants, none of the women knew how much she spoke for the rest. A volunteer with a ponytail pulled through the back of a navy ball cap ascended the steps and knocked on the door between the iron rods. She set down a paper bag she was carrying. Chilled, she rubbed her hands together and blew into them. She had stood there before. The other four, who huddled in the yard, had never been to this part of town. Its reputation was bad. Lots of crime, even in broad daylight. They made small-talk to relieve their unease. Well, fall’s finally arrived. Yep. No sun for us today looks like. Yeah. Afraid not. It was so chilly this morning! I was all ready to go on time for a change. Got out to the driveway and, wouldn’t you know, the windshield was covered in frost. Oh my. See, that’s why I couldn’t live without a garage.
Eventually, the front door opened. A young African woman in a black
baati 1 with her hair wrapped in a saffron shash blocked the entrance. Her face protruded between the door and frame. She spoke to the leader. Younger boys of varying heights took turns peering out from behind her dress. “The littlest one is Gurey,” a volunteer on the ground offered. “Or was he Yuusuf?”
2The rest of the group awaited the all-clear. Ten minutes had passed since their arrival. They wondered if something is amiss. What’s the hold up? Didn’t the family know we were coming? Was the door slightly ajar to keep her brothers in or to keep us out? After more talking, the leader turned back and announced there’s been a change of plan.
The plan had been for the vanful of youth group members to take the youngest children to kick around a ball, maybe toss a frisbee, and swing by the Science Center. They were going to keep it fun and not pressure the boys to open up or anything. It was about building relationships and establishing trust. Let the kids set the pace. Christ comes later. In the meantime, the women could do their work.
“The boys’re going to school.” The women on the ground observed each others’ reactions. Some were surprised. Others were incredulous. “I know. On a Saturday. I don’t get it either.
3 But so, yeah, I think you kids’re free to go help someone else.”
The youth group students, most of whom had been toying with the two cats, accepted the news placidly. “Okay. I’ll call Randy and see where else we can go. No problem,” the youth pastor said. Three of the students attempted posing with the strays. The cats were not compliant.
The leader on the stoop turned back again. “And she says she’s already cleaned the upstairs apartment, so we’re only going to be dealing with the ground floor.” Although none could detect it in her voice, she expressed contempt with her eyes. The males’ apartment was upstairs. She had been told it was the worse of the two.
What was going on? Was coming a mistake? Is there going to be trouble? The women still had not been invited in. One of them was growing fearful of conflict, anticipating raised voices and threats, though she chided herself for it. The four had started shivering. None wore jackets because none owned jackets they’d easily dispose of. One wore a shirt commemorating Super Bowl XXXIV. Two set down supplies in succession, their fingers sore from gripping handles. They had been sent with a sense of purpose, whereas they had been received with a sense of hesitation. If not suspicion.
Finally, the patriarch opened the door wide and stepped into view. His hair was closely cropped. His mustache was thin. He was clad in Western clothes that sagged on his slender frame, all khakis and browns. He did not smile, wave, or otherwise acknowledge the newcomers. He stood off by himself on the porch. He stood a man five years shy of fifty-one, his native life expectancy. The leader backpedaled. The father spoke to the young woman in the doorway, who relayed information back into the apartment. The women assembled on the lawn understood his tone, not his words. Their visit was not his idea.
After the young woman yelled into the flat, his sons promptly assembled on the porch. The younger ones wore T-shirts, jeans, and scuffed athletic shoes. The eldest dressed in streetwear typical of Sumner High. The leader grabbed the grocery bag at her feet and handed it to him. He peeked inside before setting it inside the adjacent door.
The sons walked toward the family’s weathered Camry with textbooks bearing Arabic script tucked underarm. The father was the last to descend, his silence towards the group seeming to them pointed. Once the car squealed to life, the woman with the navy cap motioned for everyone to enter. Single file, the others approached and crossed the threshold.
As you sent me into the world, so I sent them into the world.
Forty minutes ago, the pastor sermonized over pinging radiators in the church basement. Waving a tattered Bible, he had said that it was crazy to be doing what they were about to do. He said it was crazy like how Jesus had commissioned his apostles was crazy. Jesus had sent them out ill-prepared and ill-equipped, a ragtag militia instead of a powerful army. These nobodies, average Joes and plain Janes, were going to change the world without having so much as packed tomorrow’s underwear. This was so that no one would doubt it was God who effected change through the apostles, not the disciples on their own. And in a little while, God is going to work through the folks right here in this room to remake our humble little patch of earth. In ways you all don’t understand, God’s going to be using you. With every window you seal, or garbage bag you stuff, or dresser you move, God’s perfecting His kingdom through your deeds. Little you are going to be redeeming the world with His help. Pretty amazing, right?
The pastor repeated the word crazy, enthusiastically, seven or eight times throughout his speech. It made the youth smirk and eventually snicker. It made some of the adults inwardly cringe and shift in the plastic school chairs.
***
The leader introduces the volunteers to the remaining family. “You remember me, Gail. This is Judy. This is Joan. That’s Linda in the blue and yellow t-shirt. In the back’s Betty. Everybody, this is Astur. She’s the reason we’re here today.” Gail wraps an arm around Astur. “And this is her younger sister Fa… I’m sorry. Your name?”
“Faduma,” an adolescent wearing a crimson shash softly replies.
“Faduma, sorry. Faduma and their mom, Khadijja.” Gail gestures to a woman wearing a yellow-patterned baati who is reclined on a dingy microfiber armchair. The woman nods. “She is very pregnant.” Gail makes an arc over her own stomach. “Baby soon.” The woman nods again.
Everyone is uncomfortably close within the small first room. A commercial drones on indifferent to the ambient tension. The guests’ vision adjusts to the dimness. No artificial light augments the daylight filtered through the pinned tapestries like weak tea. A scent none of the Christians can identify lingers in the room.
4As soon as gazes meet, both parties avert their eyes. Joan peaks at her phone. The volunteers put down buckets and await direction. No one gives it. A few of them start to fidget. Linda is drawn to an advertisement for Sesame Street. After Betty dons her gloves, the rest follow. Some wear the thick rubber kind designed for dishwashing, and others stretch on the thin kind found in doctors’ offices.
The Somali women watch the Americans take these precautionary measures. They see strangers occupying their home, toting disinfectant and detergent. Strangers are protecting themselves from touching objects the Abdis regularly touch. These same
gaalos5 have become ritually unclean by wearing shoes inside.
Wordlessly, everyone agrees to forego further pleasantries. The two daughters withdraw deeper into the flat.
He made from one man every nation of mankind to live on the face of the earth.
What had begun for the Abdis as a place of promise deteriorated within weeks. The family had brought their domestic carelessness with them. No one in the camp owned a vacuum or a can of Pledge. You can’t mop a dirt floor. The permeability of bivouac shelters discouraged sweeping. Once migrated, housework was a low chore on the list. Their competing needs included: staying warm, improving their English, learning any English at all, finding a second job, finding a first job, preparing food for ten, practicing footwork, memorizing the profession of faith, making friends, and passing remedial algebra.
When Gail asked why she hadn’t finished her math homework during a tutoring session last month, Astur said she was struggling to keep her younger siblings bathed and clothed. Her mom was very tired, so Astur did what she could. But there was so much. Where do you begin? is a foreboding question the daughters don’t answer returning home from school and the volunteers are now asking themselves.
Fan out. Pick up the trash off the ground so you don’t step on it and rub it in or break it further. Organize what’s useful and get rid of the rest. Then sweep up the crumbs, bits of dead leaves, and whatever else was crammed beneath a dozen shoes’ soles. Wipe surfaces to rid them of sticky patches, fingerprints, and dust. Then sweep up what was flung off the surfaces. Mop last of all. Swab away the muddy footprints, the forgotten tomato sauce, someone’s secretly spilled drink. At least, that was the general plan they had hashed out in the church basement.
***
Betty is a big proponent of ammonia and has brought an unopened bottle with her. She announces it’s for everyone to use as liberally as they wish. It’s degreasing qualities are second to none. And it’ll kill germs, too. Linda attests to this and adds, for most messes, you rarely need anything more than water and a shot of ammonia. She passes the yellow jug around to the others, who pour it into various vessels. The new buckets are filled with water so hot it nearly scalds the volunteers.
“The water heater works!” Joan yells.
“Oh good,” Linda replies. “You never know.”
Judy opens a pack of blue microfiber rags and distributes them. The volunteers are ready.
Betty and Judy stay in the back. Joan claims the bathroom for herself. Gail and Linda drift to the front half, unsure of what to do. Khadijja shifts in her chair so she can monitor the Christians. Astur and Faduma busy themselves in the dark makeshift bedroom. They consolidate piles of wadded up clothes into a larger pile. Some of the clothes are threadbare.
Gail flicks the lightswitch in the middle room and nothing happens. She looks up at the fixture. Both the sockets are hollow.
“Don’t you have any light bulbs?”
“What?” Astur asks.
“Light bulbs?” Gail points up. “For the light?”
“Oh. No. I don’t think so.”
“Well, we can fix that.” Gail writes on a slip of paper she pulled from her back pocket.
We have all become like one who is unclean
Standing in the flat and assessing the situation, Gail wonders how truly crazy this is. Scrubbing the floor is God’s work? She’ll scrub, but calling it redemptive seems like a stretch. Besides, who was going to prevent the grime from returning? The Abdis didn’t seem to care. Why bother teaching a man to fish if he doesn’t like seafood? Gail is losing heart.
Crumpling a candy wrapper in her hand, Gail thinks she couldn’t live like this. These surroundings would wear her down. She couldn’t concentrate. When she’s in her own home, trying to read a magazine or flipping through the bills, she’ll pop up from the couch to grab a stray bit of debris across the room. If she passes a piece of string without plucking it from the carpet, the string tugs at her. She’ll double back. It’s nearly compulsive. Why is that?
Gail searches for a trash can. There isn’t one in the room with Khadijja or by the sisters. The bathroom is bare except for the tub and Joan who’s doubled over it. All that’s under the kitchen sink are ancient paint cans. Shutting the doors, Gail tries to recall Maslow's hierarchy. Would a clean home be on there? She guesses at some point dirt could make you sick, especially if you were an asthmatic or something. But the more she thought about it, the less of a requirement it seemed. It was more like a luxury.
What’s wrong with cleanliness being integral to Gail’s quality of life? It’s good to take care of your surroundings. She learned it from her parents. She had to make her bed every morning and put away her toys and books every night or else there’d be consequences. No dessert. No TV. Being here made her question why she’s kept those habits now that she calls the shots.
She continues to introspect while shoving the wrapper in her pocket. You can tell yourself all you do around the house is for yourself because you’re worth it, but it’s not that simple. Or not simply good. Looking around at the patchwork of cobwebs dangling from the high ceilings, imagining how she’d feel if this was her house and she was going to have company over, she knew she’d be ashamed. Being organized sent a message to others. “I have my stuff so thoroughly together I don’t even have stuff lying around my house.” It was a presentation the same as her framed diplomas, designer clothes, highlighted hair, and on and on. “Look at what I’ve done,” or “See who I am.” That tarnished her seemingly admirable tidying of trinkets and folding of blankets. On the one hand, she was honoring her friends and family by making her place presentable. But on the other, she was seeking their unspoken approval.
So what if things were out of place? Maybe the Abdis were onto something. Not consciously, of course. But they weren’t putting on a show. They weren’t pretending to be perfect. It would be nice to not care so much.
Gail concludes they could care a little more when she lifts up the corner of a couch so Linda can sweep up what might be mouse droppings.
***
Although there are tables in the kitchen, none qualify as a kitchen table. They function as counter space in the absence of cabinetry. Atop one of the folding tables rests a microwave with a blank display. Betty dips down and sees the cord dangling unplugged. While she’s under there, she notices bars from the leg assemblies also dangling. Either the screws were stripped, or someone didn’t finish putting it together. There are no dining chairs. Atop the lone chair’s velveteen cushion sits the central part of a boombox. No speakers are connected. It looks out of place off by itself blocking what could be a pantry door.
Betty tries to open the mini blinds and let in some light, but the tilt wand is missing. She can see the nub where it would connect, but she can’t reach it. The blinds are tinged brown and tacky from years of nearby frying. Getting the grease off of them is going to be a bear. She can’t deal with that at the moment. First, Betty plugs the sink and fills it with soapy water. It’s a good thing she brought Dawn because she couldn’t find any around here. She lets the utensils soak and starts in on the thirty-some dishes she’s gathered from stacks around the room.
When she’s absorbed in housework, the hymn “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing” often pops into her head. She meditates on one line, repeating it over and over to herself as she scours. “His blood can make the foulest clean.” It helps her keep a proper perspective. What’s on the outside may be foul, but it’s not the foulest. The foulest is inside us. That’s why Jesus told us to wash the inside first before addressing the outside. She hums the melody.
After towelling off the dishes for want of a drying rack, Betty sets about gathering the strewn cookware. She holds her breath every time she removes a lid. She never finds anything fuzzy with mold or teeming with pests. Most of the contents look the same: the olive drab of lentils and rice. A plastic cup with a hospital’s logo contains bright red liquid. A fly is afloat, no longer struggling. Betty pours it out before refilling the sink.
The largest pot releases a cloud of steam when she opens it. Inside are mashed potatoes and something green. Whatever it is, it smells like curry.
6 She scrapes the congealed leftovers of most of the pots into a large black trash bag. Why don’t people in such need of food store what they have properly?
7
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
Eleven miles away, Betty’s house was intimidatingly clean. Hers was a home so spotless, guests frequently felt insecure about their own relatively unkempt homes for the duration of their stay. Her countertops were never pocked with condensation rings or smudged with fingerprints. There was no clutter spread over the granite island, no misplaced lids within it, no clumps of fuzz beneath the ladder-back chairs, no crumbs under the pedestal table. The carpet always bore vacuum tracks. The gleaming hardwood always felt slightly slick underfoot.
Betty and Lawrence weren’t snowbirds, either. They lived there, ate there, and slept there all year round. Still, no visitor ever saw their villa less than spick and span. Even during events when the other bathrooms were occupied and Betty invited someone to use the master, nothing was out of place or filmy in there. It was as though Betty and Lawrence didn’t shed.
You would think entering a place like the Abdis would give Betty palpitations, but it didn’t. It thrilled her. Filth gave her a sense of purpose. She used to keep 5,200 square-feet immaculate by herself. 1,200 square-feet wasn’t going to overwhelm her. She wasn’t afraid of dirt. She was averse to what tolerated it: idleness.
***
Judy hears Betty’s humming and can’t figure out whether she’s actually enjoying herself or holding back screams. Judy listens to the tune as she wipes down the walls. The potency of Betty’s concoction makes Judy cough from time to time, but she can’t argue with the results.
Being short, Judy naturally gravitates towards chores involving rooms’ lower halves. When she enters the kitchen, she immediately scans the floor. There are shards of onion skin and sheets of blank loose-leaf paper strewn about. At the base of the rusting cabinet holding the sink is a fluffy mound of Judy knows not what. She squats in an attempt to identify the heap. It looks a bit like diced Vidalias. But there were dark flecks in it, too. Whatever it was, it had to go. Judy locates a ratty broom and pan and kneels down on her good knee. She puts force into her movement, expecting the stuff to be moist and resistant. But it’s dry and light. She grasps some in her gloved hand. It hardly weighs anything. She lets the pieces fall. It floats down like foam.
Befuddled, she fills the pan and dumps its contents. Doing so reveals a sizeable hole in the baseboard. More foam spills out of the wall as she sweeps. The hole’s edges are gnawed round. Judy sweeps more fervently, nervous that whatever had dislodged the insulation would reappear.
Judy understands now why there was a concrete block nearby, which she swings to block the hole once she finishes. Why had the block been swung away in the first place?
8 Why had they allowed this pile of whatever to accumulate there and for how long?
9 Judy hadn’t a clue.
We will test you in fear, hunger, loss of wealth, life, and fruit, but give glad tidings to the patient.
In a kitchen outlet, Faduma plugs in the family’s smartphone and scrolls through pictures while Betty asks around for a plastic bag. Like her peers, Faduma reaches for the phone whenever she gets bored. Unlike her peers, she doesn’t feel she belongs with them. She doesn’t feel she belongs anywhere.
She’s lived on two continents and been at home on neither. Life before, inside the tall fences was unbearably bright and hot. Her face would hurt from squinting. She spent sweltering days kicking up warm, red Saharan soil with her little brothers, Yuusuf and Abdullah, or else carrying jerrycans full of water so far she could hardly bend her arms once she returned. She chased Astur around their section while the older boys were off at school because learning was not for women.
It’s hard to reconcile her memories of captivity with air conditioning, vending machines, and educational video games. But the world contained them both, and so did Faduma. She lacks the words, in Somali or English, to express how lonely she is trudging along the cold, brown Missouri clay. She’s unrelatable here, and she can’t really relate to others either. She’s not used to isolation. It doesn’t suit her. She was more alone in a single sixth grade day in the States than she was in a month in the camp. It hurts to be alone, especially in a classroom with thirty-four others.
But those and other feelings subside when she turns up the volume on a music video.
***
Having dispatched with the easy tasks, Betty suggests sweeping behind and around the fridge. She calls to Linda, who everyone agrees is the least likely to throw out her back lifting something heavy. Linda comes and wrests the appliance from the corner.
Betty leans in and around a folding table and maneuvers into position. Dirt and dark stains are revealed. She sees the first cockroach flee, and she swats at it with her broom. The pest evades her attack. The air disturbance and the increased brightness trigger dozens of dark shapes to disperse.
“Put it back put it back put it back!”
Linda asks, “What?” but then strains against the fridge as she spots what’s alarming her friend. Linda’s shoes slip a few times, but she recovers her balance.
The relative absence of insects had been conspicuous. Astur had warned Gail there were lots. Gail girded the volunteers for the worst, but few had been found. Behind the TV stand lied a spider cemetary. A long, winged insect skittered around the potatoes as Judy inspected them for rot. That was it.
“That’s where all the bugs are.”
“What should we do?”
“Could we spray them with 409 or something?”
“No. That won’t cut it.”
Betty shouts to Gail, who is changing bedsheets, “Did you bring any bug spray?”
“No. Why? The exterminator’s coming Wednesday.”
“Well, we found our bugs. They’re all behind the fridge. Lots of them.”
Gail enters the kitchen holding a pillow. “Huh. I guess they’re attracted to the warmth.”
“Yeah. And the dark,” Judy adds. “Plus the food nearby.”
“You think I should go run to the store and get some?” Gail asks.
“I would, yeah. I hate the idea of leaving them there.”
“Okay. Do we need anything else while I’m out?”
“Maybe a trash can. They don’t have a trash can that I’ve seen. And some storage bins or big tupperware. Their food’s on the ground.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of, no.”
“What about you, Linda?” Gail yells over her shoulder. “Do you need anything at the store?”
Linda brushes her bangs out of her face with her gloved forearm. “No!” She shouts back. “Not unless you think they’d use Lysol!”
“I doubt it!”
Let not the left hand know what the right hand is doing.
Linda navigates the Swiffer around the thrift-store furniture in the front. She checks on Khadijja, who continues watching television. Linda wants to strike up a conversation. Get to know her. Share the Good News. She waits for a commercial break.
Linda has told anyone who’s asked all about her weekend plans. She nonchalantly mentioned how she was helping the less fortunate this Saturday. She didn’t want to come off as holier-than-thou, but the fact of the matter was she did feel good about being part of Sowers Ministry. Normally, they built box gardens, spread out soil, and planted seedlings. That was more up Linda’s alley.
But this here was not what she had signed up for. When she first heard about the likelihood of bedbugs, she cringed. Her first impulse was to take a pass. Bedbugs, lice, ticks, mosquitoes: anything that jabs its tiny hypodermic mouth in your flesh gave Linda the heebie jeebies. What if a few hitchhiked on her clothes? She’d have to toss out all her linen, and she just bought a new duvet. She considered joining Sheri and the ICU gals for brunch after all. Which was the sin talking.
Linda was depraved, to be sure. She was selfish and all too happy to take the easy way out. She scolded herself for being tempted to serve only on her own terms. That’s not what Jesus did. He didn’t take a pass on the Cross because it wasn’t up his alley. So she prayed to God for fortitude.
The more Linda thought about it, the better she felt for intending to go and do this thing she was repulsed by. She gave herself more credit for getting excited about making an even bigger sacrifice than usual and venturing out of her comfort zone. Buoyed by these thoughts, she resolved to attend.
She told a few people some real sob stories about the refugees and how poor and sad their lives were. She talked about canned food dinners and bare walls and ceilings caving in from water damage. That description was looking less true all the time. Not because the place was in better shape than she expected. It wasn’t. It was as bad or maybe worse. But the Abdis didn’t seem to mind. They were poor but not sad. They just stepped over the trash or avoided the sticky arm rest or what have you. Kids will play wherever. Everyone looked to be in good health, which is making Linda feel conflicted or something like that. Whereas before she had really talked up today to get herself psyched and was convinced she’d be doing a good deed, she’s currently wondering if her feelings weren’t really disguised self-indulgence on her part and a different sort of depravity. Here Linda was wanting credit for carrying her own cross when it turned out the Abdis were resilient enough to go on living this way.
Khadijja even appears happy. She’s smirking at the television.
“You like this show?”
Khadijja turns her head.
“What’re you watching?”
10Khadijja grins at Linda and says something Linda can’t make out but then breaks eye contact. Linda assumes that will be the extent of their conversation. She resumes Swiffering.
***
Gail stands in the bathroom doorway. “What about you, Joan? Do you need anything from the store?”
Joan’s face is flushed. “What about paper towels?”
“Don’t they have some? Hold on.”
Gail checks the kitchen cabinets. She pulls open a drawer.
“See this?” Gail indicates the black specks dotting a drawer’s seam. “It’s roach poop.” Betty says she’ll take care of it. Gain shuts the drawer and returns to Joan. “I can’t find any paper towels. I’ll pick some up. Be back soon.”
Linda, who’s swapping out the mop pad nearby, becomes nauseated recalling similar speckling along the living room baseboards. She assumed it was ordinary dirt, though it was oddly arranged. She had unknowingly sent the scat airborne by wiping it away vigorously. She inhaled and sneezed.
It had never occurred to Linda insects defecated. Now that the idea has been broached, it seems obvious since bugs ate and they couldn’t be little closed loops of consumption. She considers how small individual roach BMs must be and how many BMs these visible dots must represent. The molding was practically peppered. Linda has a vision of all the bacteria cells sloshing around atop the droppings, spinning as they do under microscopes, feasting and gaining strength. And she wonders if her sense of smell were acute enough if she could detect it, which she shouldn’t have wondered because she has to suppress her gag reflex while Faduma changes songs nearby.
Cleanliness is half the faith.
Betty assumed only the clinically depressed could live in such a state of disarray. Laziness could have explained it, too. Had the Abdis worn themselves out getting here? Maybe the wait took it out of them. She’d read somewhere that most refugees have to wait years to get into America. How long had they sought asylum?
11She’s sure they’re still adjusting to our conventions. Still, who leaves potato peels on the floor to curl up and blacken? That can’t be okay anywhere
Betty’s starting to get riled up as she chips off dried sauce or maybe cheese from a fork with her thumbnail. She speaks slowly and emphatically to Astur, who is wiping a nearby table. “No food on the floor, okay? It’s bad. Bugs come. Yuck. Food off the ground, okay?”
Astur nods in agreement. She understands all this and more, not that Betty could tell. Astur limits herself to nonverbal communication for fear of misspeaking. Although she would not misspeak because she listens attentively to conversations in the hallways at school and formulates answers to the teachers’ questions without raising her hand to offer them. She remains mute throughout. When she’s correct, she doesn’t smile–not even to herself. She doesn’t want to be asked what she’s smiling about and, by answering, risk misspeaking.
Astur is familiar with how insects crawl on the ground. She’s seen her share. She also knows that insects, at least these ones, won’t kill you. They’d rather stay away. You’re more of a threat to them than they are to you. And if they won’t even bite, why be worried about them so much?
Astur has loads of worries. A lot fell on her as the oldest girl. Her mom was nearly due, her dad was almost always on duty, the boys would sooner use brooms as swords, and Faduma was taking forever with her pre-algebra. That left Astur to do the best she could. She worried about the laundry because wearing dirty clothes out in the clean, white world had far graver consequences than hidden bugs. Not that it didn’t bother her. She reached out to Gail to maybe have someone help them in this way because the Prophet–peace be upon him–would disapprove. That and she’s too embarrassed to invite her lone friend over from school.
***
Joan is on all fours, wiping up hairs and fibers from the linoleum floor. She wads up the used paper towels and throws them by the door. She sprays tile cleaner to remove mildew from the shower. The grout goes from black to gray. Dirty drops trickle down the tile. What she needs is bleach and an old toothbrush. She dunks her rag into a bucket, and the water darkens. She pours out her bucket in the scaley tub. She puts the bucket under the faucet and turns the knob. It spins freely without engaging the valve, so she fills up in the kitchen.
She re-enters the bathroom with cleaning solution sloshing in the bucket. She sprinkles Comet around the toilet bowl. She does what she can without a toilet swab. Joan pushes hard on the wet rag and feels the first pricks of sweat under her arms. It’s not so bad. The porcelain’s finish is pitted at the water level. Disappointed, Joan moves on to the stopperless sink. She windexes the cracked mirror above it. Lint from the rag lodges in the gaps. Joan notes again the bare toilet paper holder. How sad. To not even be able to afford toilet paper. She currently has thirty rolls in her basement. Had she’d known, she could’ve brought some. The Abdis should get a Sam’s membership, a family this big. Maybe we could buy one for them.
The more time Joan spends in the Abdis bathroom, the more appreciative she is for her own 2.5 potpourri-scented baths. She considers herself blessed. Joan regularly counts her blessings. She begins her prayers with a series of thank yous. Thank you for this day. Thank you for the sun, clouds, rain, or snow. Thank you for sending us your Son. She’s been doing this for decades. But ever since she heard a sermon about the Pharisee and the Publican, she’s been trying to scrutinize her gratitude. The Pharisee was grateful to God for his righteousness and gave Him the honor, which on the surface looks like the right thing to do. But from the wider context, we know the Pharisee’s praise was thinly veiled boasting. That’s the problem with superficiality. The surface is often misleading, the pastor said, be it laminate, veneer, or skin. Don’t stop with the whats. If you want to understand a thing, you’ve got to ask about how it got here or why it’s doing what it’s doing.
She reflects on her gratitude as she rubs the windowsill. Joan thanked God He hadn’t destined her for food stamps. Her conscience nips at her, though. Scripture says blessed are the poor. How’s that? With the last layer of paint sloughing off, Joan leaves the sill alone. She extracts a couple house fly carcusses from the lip and drops them in the toilet.
The less you have, the less junk gets between you and your Maker. When you have fewer possessions, you have fewer distractions. If she and Doug were less well-off, she couldn’t be lulled into a false confidence by their Second Empire house, two pensions, and healthy bank accounts. Everybody, from pauper to prince, doesn’t draw another breath without our Father willing it.
Once again, Joan is reminded you can’t impulsively praise God for everything that pleases you because not all pleasures are blessings. There’re hidden snares, hooks in the Devil’s bait. We can horde goods to our own detriment. We can obsess over them and idolize them. So, we can turn goods into bads. Like how Joan is proud of herself for serving as opposed to simply depositing checks in the offering trays like so many other congregants do or, worse still, just letting it pass on by.
Joan isn’t clear on whether the ambivalence is in us or in the things or in how we relate to the things, but it’s there. Just below the surface. Take attractiveness. Joan had this friend growing up, Kathleen Kubicki, who was so pretty. Joan was jealous of Kathy’s looks. But Joan also tried not to hold it against her because Kathy was really sweet, too, and didn’t flaunt her beauty or make the other girls feel ugly. And so, long story short, she can now see how double-edged that gift was because now–some forty years later–Kathy is way more hung up about her appearance than Joan is, and she suspects that Kathy’s aging agonizes her to a degree that Joan’s own aging doesn’t because she was never tempted to identify herself as a thing, even a very pretty thing. Whereas Kathy was. Because attractiveness is good, and we want to be identified with the good. But that identity won’t last. It can’t. What must’ve brought Kathy secret happiness all those years when she was vying for beauty queen has gone on to bring her far more torment as overt as a second facelift.
And verily, the hereafter will be better for thee than the present.
The middle room in the shotgun floorplan is a sliding block puzzle of mattresses. Most are directly on the wood floor. One is atop box springs. In here, Linda tries to reassemble the Abdis’ crib they had been gifted the prior month. Faduma explains Gurrey and Yuusuf had climbed into it and been jumping when the front came off.
“That’s boys for you. Full of energy. I have a couple myself. They broke their bunk bed when my oldest was practicing a piledriver on my youngest. He went through a professional wrestler phase.” She speaks to the headboard as she tries to figure which end is up. “His brother had to go along for a ride.”
Faduma giggles. She and Linda try to coordinate motions wordlessly. It’s an awkward business. Plastic connector pieces spin that seem to Linda like they shouldn’t. Faduma raises her side; Linda raises hers. “It just…”
“Okay. My side’s good.”
Faduma lowers hers. The front descends and nothing catches it. Something is wrong. The alignment is off.
Astur enters to lend another pair of hands. The three continue to swap pieces and locations. After Linda suggests they rotate the railing around, everything falls into place. They each cheer. Astur stays. Faduma returns to her phone.
Linda wonders about this young woman, what she had seen, why she’s so composed, and how she and her relatives had endured their awful trials. She wanted to tell Astur about Jesus and how he’s been tormented, too. She wants to share how he was a refugee and he was persecuted unjustly. But Linda isn’t sure what to say that would get through to Astur or any of them. The Abdis, at least those over the age of ten, seem to be were walled off, separated from the volunteers by an invisible barrier. Like emotional scar tissue.
In the afterglow of success, Linda asks Astur if she likes it here in America.
‘Like’ being relative, Astur compares St. Louis to Dadaab
12. “Yes. I like it.” How could she not? The camp was abysmal: cramped quarters, scheming men, stinging sand, and a coating of dust on everything including herself. The neighborhood was built out of acacia sticks and corrugated metal, mud and plastic, all loosely held together by nails and wire. The roofs were tarpaulin. Their exile would outlast their prison.
Under the sun’s blazing eye, she grew up like a weed. Like a weed, she was deemed a drain on precious resources. Like a weed, she was treated as a member of an invasive species instead of a valuable individual. A Somali. A
Rahanweyn13. A girl. What was likeable about that life?
Whereas what wasn’t likeable about the outside? Everyone in the camp who still had hopes hung them on getting out. Liberation meant lots of food, access to medicine, quiet at night, shade trees, and pizza. Out there was the prospect of due process, water every time you turn the faucet, no more lines, and no more fear. It was all true. On the other side was abundance. She had her own bed which no one else ever tried to climb into. She had comfortable shoes. She had a library card.
But it wasn’t as great as people hoped. The outside was a letdown like all wakefulness compared to dreams. Her father brought his booming voice and quick temper with him. The cuisine was bland. Neighbors didn’t talk. Their complexion was problematic. Everyone eyed her when she walked to and from the nearest grocer. She stuck out. Boys said mean things at school and girls made noises, shrill noises she wanted to run from. But she can’t outrun it all.
After a long pause, Astur reiterates she likes America very much. She and Linda slide the crib back against a wall together.
***
None of the volunteers need to urinate because Gail had encouraged using the facilities at New Earth before they left. She couldn’t vouch for the state of the Abdis’ bathroom. She said it was probably more of a ‘hovering situation’ than a ‘sitting situation’ and winked. A couple of the women tittered nervously at this. In the car, Gail regretted making light of their living conditions. It wasn’t funny.
The women weren’t alone in their apprehension. The pastor prepared the entire group for encountering cultural differences. Really slow down and think about your assumptions because these people may not assume them, too. So, for starters, please don’t touch anyone without receiving prior permission. Personal space is kind of a relative thing, and other people are less touchy-feely than we are. So be respectful of that. Let them take the lead. Try not to read into them standing farther away or maybe standing closer than you’re used to. It’s just another totally valid way of doing things.
Considering such differences, some of the first-time volunteers worried about inadvertent missteps they might take. How else might they offend? They left more timid than emboldened.
The life of this world is only the enjoyment of deception.
Judy is working on the front door when Gail knocks on the other side. She opens the door to let Gail in, then resumes. Whatever dark substance had stained one of the panels isn’t coming off, no matter how hard Judy scrapes. “We’re going to have to come back and paint this,” she said to herself. Judy feels a stiff draft seeping through the frame. “And caulk it.”
“What?” Gail asks over her shoulder as she sets down a bin.
“Oh. I can’t get this gunk off. It’s like tar or something. We’re going to have to paint the door.”
“Yeah. That’s pretty bad.” Gail adds white paint (semi-gloss) to the growing list in her pocket notebook. Also on the list under ‘Abdis - next time’: diapers, screws, expandable foam, tape measure (for blinds), Sam’s membership, plumber?, folding chairs.
Joan comes to collect a roll of paper towels. “I wish I’d have known sooner. There’s no toilet paper, either.”
“What? How’s that?”
14 Betty asks as she grabs a can of Raid. “What do they use?”
“I think they use water,” Gail answers.
“From where? The sink?
15 With their bare hands?
16”
No one responds. Betty departs flabbergast.
Judy frees the tupperware from its cardboard packaging. “What’d you give that boy on the porch?”
“Faraz? I gave him a pair of soccer shoes.”
“Oh. What’d he say?”
“Thanks.”
What Faraz didn’t say was how surprised he was the Christian followed through or how he had regretted mentioning new cleats to her when she asked what she could do for him. But she was so persistent, and he did need cleats. If he was going to impress the coaches, he needed to keep his footing. If he was going get an MLS scout’s attention, he needed a college scholarship first. He felt like an American, planning like this.
People here constantly talk about what they want to be, and it’s funny to Faraz. Growing up, everyone talked about what they wanted to be, too, but it was different there. Here, it might actually happen. There, it was just a way to pass the time. Talking with no grounding. Storytelling. Everyone talked about better days, but few had reason to believe they’d see them. Dozens of teenagers had killed themselves after despairing of emigration.
Tahrib17 was drawn-out suicide. So, too, was enlisting. Some people sought out death. For other people, death came to them. The end was the same.
Seemingly every man over the age of twenty had given up. When they talked, their hearts weren’t in it. A lot of them chewed
khat18 all day in alleys or a strip in the market. Their slack faces reminded Faraz of a cow’s as they stared far out into nothing. It was sickening. They traded half their grain–and usually their family’s–to waste away stoned and grinning. But eventually, that’s what people did. They made up a brighter future or they opted out of life. Hope was a mirage in the desert, whether you took it from a dream or a drug.
For a long time, Faraz didn’t imagine the future because he was too gripped by the past. He had nightmares. They were set in his homeland. He dreamed of craters and rubble, skull-like houses without windows and gaping doorways, pockmarked buildings crumbling into themselves, the remains of cars scorched and skeletal. He was a little boy scrambling among the wreckage, desperate to be undetected. He was searching for Habib, his older brother who disappeared at school. He ran to avoid techinicals
19. He ducked to hide from shrouded soldiers so as not to be snatched up, flung into the back of a van, and coerced to choose between starvation, beatings, or toting a rifle.
He woke up nearly cold, hearing his siblings shift in their sleep and wondering if Habib could hear anything anymore. But he didn’t like to think about it. He diverted his thoughts to the pitch. Soccer was his means of escape, a way his lost brother would have approved of. Games were bracketed moments of freedom suspended from place. They played the same game in Manchester as in Ifo
20. He plays the same one at Sumner, and he might one day play the same at BMO Field.
***
A car engine dies in front of the duplex. The males return. Most ascend the steps to the left. Gurey bursts through the doorway to the right. He drops his bag by his mom and runs to the back where the Christians are making noise. He exclaims in the hallway. The women take notice and crane their necks to see him better. He smiles big with bright teeth. He sort of hops, sort of stomps towards them. Red lights twinkle in his shoes. He sees the ladies look down at his feet, and he has obtained what he sought. He giggles and hops back. He falls down, scampers up, and retreats to Khadijja. The volunteers are delighted.
To whom much is given, much is required.
With the trash bags starting to block foot traffic, Judy rounds them up to toss them. Astur, anticipating this, removes a lanyard from around her neck and hands Judy the key to the alley. Judy unlocks the backdoor and the barred storm-door and walks onto the platform leading to steps. Some of the wooden planks are rotted through. A particle-board shelf bridges the largest hole. The steps’ runs are unmoored from their rises. Judy takes her time descending.
She passes the box garden Sowers had planted earlier in the summer. The potential it held vanished with the changing season. The oak sides are already warped. The crops within droop, bit by the first frost. Foxtail grass and spanish needles have invaded the bed. The surrounding yard is derelict. Fuschia pokeweed stalks protrude along the fenceline. The ground is muddy. Judy is careful not to slip.
She slides the key into the padlock on the backyard gate and turns. She’s not so sure it’s necessary. Why would anyone trespass? There’s nothing of value in the whole house. She considers the locks on her doors. Her own doors’ locks serve a purpose.
She approaches the dumpster by crossing over the potholed alleyway. She’s walking through a wasteland. Kids weren’t playing on faded swing-sets. Adults weren’t sitting on brittle plastic chairs. Litter accumulates along the base of chain-link fencing, interwoven with last autumn’s leaves. All the metal in sight is blighted with oxidation. Spray paint mars garage doors and pulverized glass grinds underfoot.
Judy can’t help but think of the disparity here with her own subdivision. The Archibalds two doors down once received a tersely-worded letter for not raking regularly. You could be fined for failing to keep trash receptacles out of sight. She shudders to think of the grief they’d get if they had Johnson grass in their lawn, let alone let it go to seed like that as she opens the dumpster lid. She stares down at to-go boxes, empty two-liters, and chicken bones. She hurls their bags atop them.
Locking herself back into the Abdis’ lawn, which isn’t even legally the Abdis’ but some absentee landlord’s whose idea of pest management is gluing shut cabinet drawers so the bugs within can’t get out and will eventually die, Judy is angry. Not at herself. Because wealth had come to her almost on its own, really. She and Jim hadn’t sought it. What they had, they earned through studying plenty, working hard, and being frugal. Nor had she sought the Abdis’ destitution. She didn’t have anything to do with Africa. Her anger was directed at God. If all good gifts come from Him, why didn’t He divide them up more fairly? Because this wasn’t just a matter of one family having a lot and anther having a little. That’s bad enough. But entire countries had a little. Millions of people over hundreds of square miles had a little. Meanwhile, Judy and Jim spent more on each grandchild’s Christmas presents than the Abdis’ did on monthly utilities.
Holding on to the rickety railing and trying not to break her neck on the wobbly steps, Judy is peeved God would allow the inequality to be so stark. Then she checks her watch, and she’s shocked. There’s no way to stick to the planned noon quitting-time if they’re going to deal with the infestation, too, before they leave. So much for her lunch plans.
When she notices her quick pivot from compassion to selfishness, she’s convicted. She realizes her anger is misdirected. That yes, God creates the goods and divvies them up, but then He hands them over. He gives them to us. And what do we do? We say Hey thanks for the plenty. Can I have a bit more, in case of a recession? In our more charitable moments, we might say Don’t forget about them. Perform a miracle and rain down manna on them, too. But isn’t it our place to do something about that? We can work to rebalance the scales. We should.
Judy’s indignation grows as she hands Astur back the key. We need to be more giving. Then, the Abdis would be in decent shape. They’d have a landlord who’d take better care of the property. They’d have neighbors who’d sit down with them to go over their resumés. They’d have friends who’d lend Maxamed a saw so he could repair the platform. And their home country would have its NGO aid increased rather than cut.
Judy approaches Gail, who’s peeling a sticker off a trash can. She asks Gail to include her the next time she visits the Abdis. She resolves to write a check that afternoon for New Earth’s missions team as she’s microwaving the the takeout she missed. Later today, she forgets. Over the next week, she will recall her resolution at inconvenient times when her checkbook is in her purse in another room. That’s enough to stop her, though she wishes it wasn’t. Two weeks later, she and Gail return to patiently wade through stilted conversations as they bond with these immigrants. Judy paints the door with Yuusuf’s help. Before she can change out of her painting clothes back home, she’ll make a donation. It will be greater than her Christmas budget.
***
Betty surveys the scene for her next step. The girls have rejoined their mother. Betty looks at the kitchen cabinet and wonders if they should bother messing with it. She grabs a milk crate to stand on and decides they should. The rightmost door creaks open. Betty finds more plates and saucers. She wishes she had checked before draining the dishwater, but then nothing seemed properly stored in the house. The kitchen’s odd logic led to the conclusion dishes weren’t where they belonged.
She hands these down to Joan, who was talking to Linda about when to pick winter squash. To the left of the stacked plates nearest the front was a jar containing what looks like vaseline. Betty spins the jar around and reads ‘cow ghee’ aloud. “What’s that?”
21 The jar has no lid, so she tips it to peer inside. Mired in the fatty muck are more roaches. None twitch.
“Can I get a bag?”
She drops the jar into the one Linda holds aloft.
“They don’t even cover their food. Honestly.”
She opens the middle door and finds at a couple old incandescent bulbs still in their boxes. She shifts these and extracts a bottle of prescription medication. The ink is illegibly faded. “Think we should pitch these? I can’t make out the expiration date.”
“You don’t have to. Expired pills are still effective.”
“I think we should.” The pills rattle as they land in the bag.
Betty grabs a paper-wrapped tube and examines it. Black powder falls into the sink. “Charcoal?”
“No idea.”
She fingers the paper and looks at the shiny round disks inside. “I guess these are okay.” She slides them over.
Betty retracts two canisters of coffee creamer and peers into the open spout of each, expecting the worst but finding nothing but corn syrup solids within. She puts them back. She withdraws a package of dried chickpeas. Betty thinks they’re shaped like molars. She shakes the package to hear them knock together. The bag continues to crackle after she ceases shaking. Betty examines the bag and sees movement. Out of the dried legumes writhe maggots. The creamy yellow of the larvae are camouflaged by the chickpeas. They arch and cave spasmodically. Betty clenches her fist around the top of the bag. “Lots of bugs here! Lots of bugs!”
Linda catches the compromised food and ties the handles. She drops the plastic bag to the ground in terror. The jar breaks but the bag remains intact.
Khadijja watches the cartoon with Gurrey splayed on a nearby chair. She’s relieved to be off her swollen ankles and feet. Those well-callused feet and fallen arches had carried her 80 parched kilometers eight years before. Nineteen before that, Khadijja danced along the Indian Ocean’s shore on softer versions of those feet. Looking out, away from the city, the churning sea was frightfully beautiful. Sapphire bobbed beneath azure until they kissed at the horizon, powerful and limitless like Allah,
ta’ala23. It’s how she prefers to remember home.
Like the sea, Allah proved Himself capable of great destruction. He willed Xamar’s
24 fall. In His power, He sent the
Burburki25. When she snuck off one final time to behold her birthplace from the beach, burning ruins elicited another kind of fear. The skyline, ravaged by mortars and rockets, was also the product of Allah’s inscrutable judgment. She stared along the ribbon of sand, the border between what Allah wrought alone and what He renders through men, and was crushed.
What had they done?
She comprehends neither why Allah cursed the land nor the words written on the bottom of the screen. By the words, she is less afflicted. Words don’t tell the whole story. She has lived thirty-eight years without recourse to script, and she does not consider herself impoverished for it. She has been blessed with sight to see wonders unfold and hearing to survive in the nights. She has been blessed with many children.
Khadijja is at peace because her children have been set free. They aren’t fenced in like criminals.
Qabyalad26 no longer has any bearing on livelihoods. The police don’t shake you down for money or beat you for information. Even though her family still wants for many things on this side of the Atlantic, her boys will never fight a war all sides lose and her girls will never be forced into
zina27 trekking to Kenya.
She bore so much sorrow over the years, but she bore it without complaint. For her forbearance, she has been rewarded with another child. Mashallah. There’s a child inside her that will never experience overcrowding. Her newborn baby won’t wail from from unmet hunger. He won’t waste away on her back across the desert. His gums will never bleed from malnutrition. He will never by pained by drinking after going days without. Her youngest son won’t have to vye for his weekly portion of seven cups of rice. He’ll be forever nobler than livestock.
Her baby boy will receive instantaneously what the rest of the family still do not possess: citizenship in a country with a functioning central government. He will not be subjected to multiple background checks and rounds of interviews to escape persecution. His fingerprints won’t be scanned into a DHS database. They’ll be left invisible on a toy that will only and always be his. When his father whispers the
shahādah28 in his ear, the pronouncement will be unlike any of his siblings. It would be said in safety.
They had arrived.
***
Betty pops the cap off a can of bug spray. At Betty’s command, Linda once again moves the refrigerator. Betty saturates its compressor housing and soaks the surrounding linoleum. Roaches trip over themselves like passengers abandoning a sinking ship. Betty’s nostrils tingle from breathing in vapors, but she does not abandon her post. She mows the enemy down until the dark figures are motionless.
On the other side of the kitchen, Judy sees a bug clambering up the corner by the cabinet. She sets the stereo receiver down on the floor, slides the cushioned chair over, and steps on it. Gail takes her hand, and Judy hoists herself up. The top of the cabinet is lined with sediment. Judy pushes the tab and shoots a stream at a cockroach crawling up the corner. The bug falls back. It seizes up amidst the dust. Excess spray trickles down.
“Got him!”
Judy stars to reach for the chair with her foot when a gush of panicked insects erupt from behind the cabinet.
“Wait wait! There’s more!” Gail points.
Startled, Judy nearly loses her balance. She turns back and is horrified. Insects flee in every direction as though their complex were in flames. The variety of sizes indicate multiple generations. The variety of shapes and colors indicate multiple species. Judy douses them indiscriminately.
Once Joan and Linda enter to see what the fuss is about, the show is over over. The stragglers trickle out of their den in the corner, searching for their brood. Judy and Betty crush them one-by-one with brooms. Gail announces she’d like to take a picture. Judy tracks a roach and moves in for the kill. Gail tells her to hold still, which Judy does reflexively. While she’s feigning a smile, Judy wonders why aren’t we taking pictures of the Abdis.
“Okay, action shot!”
At once, Judy jams the bristles against the insect, its exoskeleton gives way, and the LEDs shine on Gail’s nearby phone. While Judy is thinking this is a bit much, Gail is thinking she got the perfect shot. “Oh! This is good!” Gail exclaims. Betty furrows her brow while Gail hugs her from the side.
Betty stoops to her hands and knees with a washcloth to sop up the pool of insecticide. Her hip pushes against a table leg. It slides inward, unbraced. The table tilts, and the microwave, dishes, pots, and pans cascade down. They slam into the side of the fridge. What can break, does. What can be dented, is. A brown puddle gathers around an overturned urn. Joan rushes over. Betty’s arched back is supporting one end of the table.
“Are you okay?!”
“Yes. I’m... Yeah. Can you get this off me?”
Prompted by the commotion, Maxamed enters the kitchen. He watches Joan help Betty up. Joan starts to gather the scattered wares. Betty fiddles with the broken leg.
Like the table, Maxamed is not adequately supported. Nor are his remaining clan in Somalia. Kenya is trying to close the camp. America has banned his countrymen. The president doesn’t want them here. What he wants he makes happen because no one stops him. He divides between insiders and outsiders like the terrorists did in Africa. They both say trouble comes from the outside, but there are good people outside, too. What about them? Those dear ones the Abdis left behind, who hadn’t already been taken by fighting or famine, are living testaments to humanity’s callousness.
Four months in, Maxamed has not found the States to be a land of opportunity. It was to him and his family a land of disadvantage. The promissory note on their one-way plane tickets was coming due soon. Repaying it would lead to skipped rent and eviction. He had no concept of a thousand dollars when he signed the paper. He never earned that in a year. If that’s what America required, they would find a way to meet it. Or so he thought. But when they arrived, a nice woman explained through an interpreter that his job prospects were meager because he was unskilled. Maxamed was insulted. He has skills. The nice woman explained through an interpreter unskilled basically means you don’t know how to do anything profitable. He objected, saying he could learn like how he learned when sorghum was ready for harvest, or after the drought he learned how to navigate congested city streets in a
tuktuk30, or after he fled again he learned how to distribute 50 kilogram sacks of grain in a wheelbarrow without tipping it over on dirt roads. But the nice woman explained through an interpreter those aren’t jobs here. So Maxamed learned how to operate a GPS, swipe credit cards, and sleep sitting up.
America was to him a land of harassment. Men with badges had twice tapped on his window and interrogated him while he was waiting for fares at the airport. They had spoken too quickly and used words he didn’t know. They had shown him pictures of people who he had never met but who looked more like him than they did. Bearded, dark-skinned men with defiant postures. Maxamed just shook his head. These agents wanted to know more about his remittances. How much he sent and to whom exactly. They asked about the
zakat31. They didn’t like his three word answers. He was a living threat to them. Once they held him during
duhur32 and stared as he rolled his mat and and bowed westward.
Just as in Somalia, Maxamed hadn’t done anything wrong. He had done no harm. He had broken no laws. Maxamed was an upright man. But wickedness cares nothing about merit. It relies upon lies. To be Muslim isn’t to be radical. To be poor isn’t to be worthy of suspicion. But the wicked won’t be convinced of any of that, and Maxamed is done trying. He won’t waste his breath.
Of course, misunderstanding begins in silence. Maxamed and his family are misunderstood. Few Americans really tried to understand them. Except maybe one of these women. He doesn’t know what to make of her. Christians were the outsiders where he came from. They were the enemy. Many people blamed the war on foreigners and infidels. Ethiopians, who worshipped the false god Jesus, had been trying to steal Somali land for generations. In the camp, a woman could be killed for having relations with a Christian. When the price of sugar rose so high the smugglers turned violent, the Christians were to blame. When the price of sugar fell so low the porter were laid off, the Christians were to blame. Presently, an infidel was folding his boys’ shirts and another was going over Yuusuf’s school work. They do not act like enemies.
***
Betty takes the blame and apologizes profusely. She promises to replace their coffee. She won’t, but she says it in the moment to feel better about making matters worse for these people she came to help. No one reassures her, but Joan says she’s glad everyone is okay. The table was an accident waiting to happen. They propped it up as best they could, but it isn’t fixed. This strikes Gail as symbolic for how narrow their mission is.
What they’re doing today is futile like what they did last month was futile, like what they’ll do next month is futile, like everything they do is futile. The dirt will return. The food they’ve left will be eaten and hunger will return. The garden they planted that will come to life again will also be assailed by aphids and blight. The vegetables will wilt because the Abdis are hesitant to incur the expense of water even though it’s free within the city limits. Such is life on earth. Such are human limitations. Such is finitude.
The volunteers aren’t sacrificing their Saturday mornings to save the Abdis’ lives. They aren’t pretending to fix everything with a wave of their wands. And even if they could, that’s not enough. Gail reminds herself that man cannot live on bread alone. Were all the Abdis’ earthly needs met, they’d have others. It’s really these unmet needs that brought group here. They’re showing concern. They’re enacting hope. Not in their power as upper-middle class WASPs. Not in their righteousness as Westerners. They work because they believe love is efficacious.
Even though they might not be allowed another visit because Betty did break a few plates earlier, Gail hopes that the Abdis will be changed. Even though the exterminator the church contracted won’t be allowed on the premises due to misplaced fears, Gail hopes that at least one of the Abdis will look back on this morning and the others, past and future, and relive the experience of being cared for. That somehow, the concern they’ve been shown since arriving here, and even before, will outweigh all of the hate and depravity they’ve been wrongly subjected to.
Gail doesn’t even begin to imagine all that this family’s been through. She’s confident, by quantitative measurements, the darkness in their lives has been greater than the light. But she hopes the lesser light will cut through, will dwell in them, and will animate them. That possibility was why she came today and why she’s been volunteering for years even though there has been a planner full of other, more enticing weekend activities.
It might not. Gail might even say it probably won’t when she considers how short-lived these effects will be and how there has surely been a mating pair of roaches they’ve missed and eggs the Raid never touched. But she won’t be deterred because that’s what the Enemy wants. The Enemy wants you to feel so awful for benefitting from unfair systems that you won’t show your face among the people who’ve been victimized by them. The Enemy wants Gail to stay home, overwhelmed by the immensity of the world’s ills and her complicity in them or else be oblivious to it all and gobble up as much as she can. Gail won’t listen to the odds or accusations. Her Savior didn’t, either.
Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.
When Gail invites Astur to pray in the kitchen with them before the volunteers go, she invites Astur to approach the throne of grace where help may be found. She does not intend to pressure Astur to publicly renounce her faith. When Astur declines, she says it’s not her time to pray. What she does not say is that praying to their God would be to
shirk33, which is a damnable offense.
The strangers form an approximate circle and lock hands. They bow their heads. Gail thanks God for the Abdis, for preserving them through such unspeakable hardships and making them our neighbors. May our service to them today glorify You. Please God make Your presence felt among the Abdis. Send them Your Spirit to comfort them. Relieve the emotional and spiritual burdens that tragedy has saddled them with. Father God, open doors for them. Help Maxamed find a different job, a better paying one that’ll allow him to be home more. Inspire the kids in their studies. Make them excited to learn. We ask that Khadijja’s labor and delivery be quick and easy and that both baby and momma would be healthy. And when this family receives that new life You graciously gave them, may that living gift lead them back to the Giver. She prays all this in Christ’s powerful name. Amen.
Most of the Abdis are in the front room waiting for the volunteers. The creaking above is a sign some of the boys are in the other apartment. Gurrey, Diric, and Abdullahi are squeezed into the loveseat, watching TV and swatting at each other. The image is washed out from the sun shining through the newly opened curtains. Faraz intervenes, catching Gurrey’s arm by the wrist before it can strike Diric’s shoulder. Maxamed stands next to Khadijja. Both of them smile and offer clipped thanks to the approaching volunteers.
Nabadeey34. Nearby, Astur whispers something to Faduma, who laughs. They say bye one after the other.
The volunteers say their goodbyes and offer well-wishes. Linda steps in to embrace Khadijja, but thinks better of it. The group attaches no strings on their way out. No one has been obligated. They leave behind no tracts or pocket New Testaments. One of the buckets, the unused rags, and the remaining ammonia are stacked by the entryway. Other goods are on a table in the back. The single-file procession exits the duplex. Betty pulls the door shut behind her. The steel security door shuts on its own.
In the front yard, women exchange truncated farewells in the damp autumn air. See you next month. Take care. Say hi to Jim for me. Judy shields her eyes. Most are eager to eat a late lunch. Joan nearly rolls her ankle on a mole tunnel. Car doors shutting send a pair of pigeons flying. The gray cat tracks their flight from his elevated perch.
Some of volunteers won't think about the Abdis again. They'll move on to the next project or take a break from local missions. Others will return to amend the garden’s soil and cultivate friendships. Gail will cradle baby Raheem in her lap and coo at him.
Some of the Abdis won’t think about the volunteers again. They’ll move on to the next crisis or take a summer class. Others will remember them when they bite into a cherry tomato or lay their head on a laundered pillowcase. Faraz will write Sowers a thank you note when he makes varsity.
The five might be God's hands in the world: wrinkled, arthritic, manicured, and well-hydrated. Or they could be deluded. The ten might be in God’s heart beside: the orphaned, widowed, infirmed, and imprisoned. Or they could be unfortunate. Whether they are made in God’s image, chosen to be Allah’s khalifa, descended from a common ancestor, or a combination thereof, the fifteen are essentially kin. They are all of them loved.
