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A Novel
by Aisha Abdel Gawad
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"Come and eat," she told us. "It's almost dawn."
Bay Ridge was about to fast for a whole month of fifteen-hour days. We would be one dry mouth, one rumbling belly, one pounding head. Mothers would wake at least an hour before dawn to make the suhoor meal, to scramble eggs and basturma in skillets. And when the children and the husbands finally woke up, usually with only a few minutes to spare, the mothers would stuff the mixture into pita halves so their families could eat more quickly, in time to perform wudu and pray with the sun. It was your last chance to eat and drink and smoke and fuck and curse and gossip and think unkind thoughts until the sun set again in the evening.
Baba shuffled after Mama like a bad dog. Lina stood up and yawned, letting out a long moan. Mama made us a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, mashed fava beans, and sliced tomatoes. We sat around the kitchen table, shoveling food sleepily into our mouths, letting bits of egg dribble down our chins. After we'd eaten, Mama stood sentry over us and watched as we each downed three full glasses of water.
"I'm going back to bed," Lina said after she'd finished.
"Haram, ya binti," Mama said and grabbed the collar of her Wu-Tang T-shirt.
The sun was creeping up the horizon and we still needed to pray Fajr. Mama dragged the coffee table to the corner of the living room to clear space for the four of us to pray all lined up. Then she brought us a basket of delicate white prayer scarves with edges like doilies. Lina and I each slipped one on, and then Mama pointed to the bathroom. We zombie-shuffled over to it, purposefully knocking into each other as we went.
Lina and I stood side by side in front of the bathroom sink. Silently, we washed ourselves with cold New York City tap water. We were efficient and thorough. In the name of God, state your intent to perform wudu. Wash both hands up to the wrists. Rinse your mouth three times. Clean your nostrils, breathing in water and blowing it out three times. Rinse your face three times. Wash your arms up to the elbows three times. Slick your hair back like an Italian mobster, once. Wash your ears. Wash your feet. Do you feel cleansed? Are you ready?
After we had performed wudu, Mama wanted Baba, our patriarch, to stand in front and lead us in prayers, but he was annoyed about being late to the shop. Baba didn't like to pray—sometimes, when he was feeling nostalgic about the old days in the old country, he would tell me about the time he was eighteen and he stormed out of his village masjid back in Egypt.
"That stupid imam, he tell me man come from ball of clay and clot of blood, and I tell him, What, are you stupid? Man, he come from monkey, not clay! So I leave and I go home and I tell my mama, Mama, I'm not praying anymore. And ever since that day, I never pray again."
Except, of course, he did pray again. Countless times. But I think I know what he meant. He meant that he never really felt it again, never again believed that it would help him ace a test or publish the poems he wrote in the margins of his school notebooks. He prayed now like a man following orders, like a man too tired to put up a fight.
The clock on the mantel chimed. It was like a cuckoo clock, except instead of birds it opened to reveal a tiny golden Ka'ba that spun and played a recording of a famous muezzin from Egypt reciting the call to prayer. A robotic voice told us that prayer is better than sleep. There are no minarets in Brooklyn. God's name does not echo across the buildings. There is nothing but a clock on the wall.
Baba was persuaded to stand in front of us, his womenfolk, and lead prayers. But he rushed through all his rakat, touching his forehead to the carpet for only a moment before standing up again. The rest of us were only halfway through when we heard the door close behind him.
When we had finished, Lina and I squeezed together in her bed. I tried to close my eyes and determine whether I felt any different on the first day of the holy month. The month when, a zillion years ago, the Prophet Muhammad received his first revelations up on that mountaintop. He thought he was just a poor illiterate orphan escaping to the mountain to rest his mind. But then the Angel Jibrail came down, and—bam—all of a sudden he was a prophet, the prophet.
Excerpted from Between Two Moons by Aisha Abdel Gawad. Copyright © 2023 by Aisha Abdel Gawad. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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