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Short Story: Muslim Writing in a Diary

    I was jobless, so my parents sent me off to Sweden. It was December, and they figured I might stay through the winter holidays. Sweden is the most sophisticated of countries, and I am lucky enough to be Swedish, of sorts, I’m very happy to say. My dad’s mom’s mom was born there in the late 1800s, and immigrated to the United States, solo, unmarried and in her thirties, in true immigrant, gritty style.
    I’m like my great-grandmother, because in high school, my parents also shipped me over the seas, solo. I was gone for a whole year, but I traveled the reverse journey of my ancestor, living with a family in Sweden through a high school exchange. During college summer days, when I was on vacation, I always swung by Sweden if I could manage it. Now, my first year out of college, I have a pretty wide base of Swedish friends, so they are taking me in and making me comfortable.
    It’s been a weird vacation, though. It hasn’t all been a shining light on fresh snow, and small, bundled stores, and long cobbled shopping streets. First, there was a bombing by some Muslim guy. I’ve always been a very tolerant person, and I have friends who are African-American and Latino, and I knew a few Muslims from my college classes. They were all right, except sometimes a bit too friendly, and sometimes a bit too haughty, and sometimes just a bit too loud and giggly. I never could see the attraction of wearing something over your head, if you’re a girl, but I wasn’t going to tell anyone else what to do either. But this bombing seriously scared me. I mean, Sweden is one of the most peaceful countries in the world – my friends say they have an army, but you know they probably just gathered up a few hunting rifles and bullets and called it a day. So you can be walking around in Stockholm in the middle of the day, minding your business, buying presents – you’re unselfishly spending your money on others – and along comes some guy and wants to kill you. Not fun.
    So it’s been kind of scary, but weird, because the news covered the bombing for a just few days. And then they got all caught up with some guy who’s leaking government material from back home, and was wanted for extradition into Sweden for rape, a guy the US really does not like. But to me, the Swedish news did not have time to waste on the guy with the government secrets. Believe me, if someone blew himself up in Seattle, where I’m from, they would have dug up every nugget of rumor and commentary and anecdote and strung them together into half a year’s worth of news coverage. Then, at the anniversary, and the dedication of the memorial park, the coverage would have started again.
    But in Sweden, they just tried to forget about it.
    I got the impression that no one knew what to do, now that someone had walked onto the streets of Stockholm with the intent of killing as many people as possible. I think people were more shocked and sad than angry, though shock and grief may inspire anger, I’m sure.
    So there I was, a bit on edge, on the train hopping between cities and friends, and I forced myself to sit down next to a black-haired girl, in late or post-college years like me, dressed for the cold in a violet-plaid coat. I figured that she was likely Muslim, and seeing that I am blonde, I was out to prove that blondes do sit by black-haired people, and that we’re not scared of each other, and in fact, that blondes welcome Muslims to live side by side. That was my goal.
    She gave me a smile, disarming me a bit, so I tugged myself out of my heavy wrappings, curled up into them, and settled into the train seat. We exchanged a few words, putting me further at ease, and in a friendly gesture that implied I feel close enough to you to get into your business, I glanced down at the little account book the girl was scribbling into. And it was in Swedish. And at that moment, I realized that I cannot claim Swedish language skills of which I had often boasted, for I looked at the hasty words and understood them not a jot. Except for two words that seemed to gleam out at me, disconnected, from the rest of the page. Two words that said: exploderade and muslimsk.
    Such a to-do! I was in a fright. You could not, after all, trust any of them. Here I was, living my own life! I was trying to visit friends! I was putting myself out to trust this girl, and she was concocting the latest bomb and nail and gun entrapments apparently dear to the hearts of all Muslims. She looked so innocent, but looks can be deceiving, is what they say. What they mean to convey is, “all that is gold does not glitter,” but I recognized now that the proverb covered also the second scenario, which was, “all that glitters is not gold.”
    I sat tight for a minute, shaking, shivering, my coat and scarf feeling like scratchy ice at my neck and fingertips. And I waited for someone to slap me, for something to provoke me out of the burning flames smoldering in the back of my eye, to stop the gunshots and screams echoing in my ear.
    But nothing happened, except that the girl flipped the page, and so panicked was I that the evidence might disappear, that we, all of us on the train, might disappear in a calamity, that I ripped myself from my seat and ran to the nearest attendant, took him aside, blurted out what I had seen and confessed to what I feared, and then ran to hide in the bathroom.
    They told me afterwards that they had confronted the girl, and examined her journal, and there was no outright harm in it; she had written: I haven’t yet done my prayers for the day, and it’s getting late, and there is not a single place I know of yet at work where I can pray during the day, and a Muslim man exploded himself in Stockholm the other day.
     I could not tell from her words if she was as unhappy with the Muslim exploder as I and my friends had been. But whether she disapproved or not, I admitted, in the end, that one could not convict her of violence or planned destruction based on that excerpt. I did not see the girl again, I hid away in another carriage for the rest of the ride, praying that the girl would disembark at a stop before I had to go collect my belongings. As we approached my station, I took a peek, and saw that her seat was empty. And I scrambled all my things into an armload, cowered beneath the seat top until at long last the train doors opened, and then shot out of the station as fast as ill-equipped shoes might on icy, snowy pavement.
     I was ashamed, see. I’m one of those white girls in the US who lives a very sanitized life. I’m not prejudiced against African-Americans, but the only ones I see are the well-groomed, educated ones who dress in clean clothes and smell good and are not morbidly overweight. I don’t see, though some of my friends have told me, the segregated schools in the inner cities where cursing is more plentiful than gardens and trees, where the kids rove around in gangs as dusk starts to fall. I’m a girl who would be flabbergasted if I ever saw such a thing; I might elect to smile and walk slowly if I met a menacingly-dressed black man in an open street at night, in an attempt to hide my fears and in order to uphold my tolerant upbringing, even if the result was a mugging or harm on my part. Because if the man was in fact kind and harmless, I would have set him back and hurt him by coldness and distance.
     So now I can only think, what did I do to the girl? She is a peer of mine – we are the same age, same time in our lives. Will she carry my suspicions as a grudge forever? Will she now pull away and set to bashing and plotting against the western world, because one day on a train she was confronted with an unfounded accusation? It was supposed to be so easy to do the good and right thing. 

Blast Off!

I decided that i was not writing the story correctly, so I am starting over, and I'll just put short stories here for a while. This one is called Blast Off. It is not about Muslims.

One day i am go to go to Sweden and stand guard there. It is the best place in the world. There is no place better than Sweden. Heja Sverige!

Joan closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat. She had not expected a plane could be this tiny. She had lifted the middle seat bar so that her side spilled out against Tristain; but he didn’t notice. He was buttressing his hands against the window sill and staring out, and his non-stop commentary left no time for individual thought.
But she listened virtuously to Tristain and answered his questions and copied his fresh two-year-old voice. Rob was just across the aisle, and she wanted to show her husband that she was a good mother.
“Look, mommy. There’s a plane outside.” He was pointing across the tarmac.
“There is,” she repeated in the special mother sing-song.
“Mommy,” he chorused. “There’s a plane there.”
“I know!”
“Mommy, can you say arriba?” Where her two-year-old was picking Spanish up from, she had no idea.
“Arriba!”
“Arriba. Mommy, when the plane goes up, we have to say ‘arriba’.”
“We do?”
“Because that means up, mommy. We have to say arriba when the plane goes up.”
“Okay!”
“Are you going to say it, mommy?”
“I sure will!”
“Mommy, arriba means up. We have to say arriba when the plane goes up!”
“Arriba!”
She was happy, spending time with her little bright boy. She thought for a minute what an adult conversation with Rob might sound like, then the flight attendant cut her off.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now cleared for take-off.”
Joan knew that merely meant, that even at this pre-dawn hour, they would simply roll onto the run-way and watch the planes already in line take-off, while they waited their turn. But Tristain did not know this. He felt the plane move, and was excited.
“We’re moving, mommy! Get ready to say ‘arriba’. Mommy, we’re going to take off. 5..4….3….2…1…blast-orf! We’re not going anywhere, mommy!”
Joan could not answer for laughing.
Tristain tried again. “Okay, we’re going to take-off. 5.. 4….3….2…1…blast-orf! The plane’s not moving, mommy! 5…4….3….2…1…blast-orf! Mommy, why isn’t the plane moving?”
The entire back section of the plane was now laughing. “What a cute kid!” one adorable and childless and stylish and white miss called out.
Tristain and Joan continued to talk about the planes and the sky and Tristain kept asking where they were going, and Joan kept saying “New York.” Then they finally did take-off, and she could see the black city and the yellow glimmers of light. The roads did not have yet the streaming rush-hour traffic cars, but that would come soon. She leaned back again, and let Tristain talk again. After a couple of minutes, she saw nothing below but the ocean, and what was that? Sand dunes? She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that the ocean rolled right into an icy formation punctured by ragged glacial blocks. But there was no ice on the oceans in North Carolina; so was it the beach? What a strange and ethereal beach, then. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts splash along with Tristain’s. What was he saying…
She awoke. She must retreated for just a couple of minutes. Out of the window, she now saw not curling sand dunes, but a still smooth ice lake but so smooth and still you could have gracefully put your foot into it and let it soak. It was colored with purple and grey and blue that all looked white. But, it could not be ice… was it clouds. Had those strange sand shapes earlier also been clouds, then? She could still see a part of the ocean. It looked like a piece of faded blue cloth stretched so that you saw the little threads holding it together. There was just one glowing spot on it, where the rising sun was reflected. 
Again, she opened her eyes, and yawned. She must have fallen asleep again. Here in the wide open sky, it was harder to hear Tristain. But they were flying over land again. They were flying over mansions and green fields and a tennis court, and roads and bridges. She tried to estimate exactly how big that bridge really was and how long it would take to cross it walking; but although she knew better she could imagine it as nothing bigger than a piece of a child’s play set. Down down down, the thudding noise of the wheels popped, and they landed.
Joan and Rob said a few words to each other. Tristain was still talking as they helped him out of his seat and tried to calm his sudden screaming.
“Mommy, I don’t want to eat there. Mommy, please let’s go somewhere else.”
“Tristain, please use your low voice,” Joan prodded him.
As with all of Tristain’s screaming fits, this one too passed quickly, and they left the plane without further incident.

Random story: Lala Falin and the Peaceful Muslim

     Two major events marked the summer that I turned twenty. First, the eastern-most reach of Russia, that incidentally Alaskans claim is in their backyard anyways, decided to secede from the grim grasp of the old Soviet regime, and beg for a place in the American union. They were promptly accepted, cheered, sent bushels of candy and flowers, and given full birthright citizen perks, much more than any of those annoying mongrel Hawaiians whom we know are really all born in Kenya! Or Indonesia. Whatever.
     They called themselves ‘Realaska’, to the ire of the governor in Juneau. ‘They’re stealing m’thunder,’ she squawked. 
    The second major event was the headline-grabbing antics of who would soon become Realaska’s most famous member, a kindly, grandmotherly lady called Lala Falin. She declared it her new patriotic duty to run for president one day, and somehow the newspapers and media really latched on to the idea. We were treated to a dose of Lala nearly every day.
    I didn’t pay much attention until the following year. I’d been a little on edge, because it seemed like all of a sudden a lot of Americans were really irritated with us Muslims, and I couldn’t figure out why! Then Lala Falin put out a tweet. She said ‘peaceful Muslims’ weren’t stepping up to the plate. Through an undercover reporter, we learned that Lala had never met a Muslim in her life. Immediately, a contest was organized: you just had to prove you were the most peaceful Muslim in America, and you’d get to meet with good old Lala.
     Well, I was all over it. It was like telling Popeye to eat spinach! It was like telling a kid to suck a lollipop, or Superman to do his job. All my friends were sitting back in amazement watching me perform super-peaceful-Muslim feats. First, I stationed myself in the most dangerous streets of Philadelphia and intercepted zooming bullets coming at cute, four-year-old girls. Then, I gave my left kidney to a hearty Christian gentleman from the Bible Belt, needing a transplant. Then I wandered down into the flat sands of good, salt-of-the-earth Texas – yes, that Texas! – and was installed as a teacher in a failing school. I even wore a sign on my chest that said, ‘I am a Muslim’, so no one would confuse my shamelessly handsome dark hair and eyes and credit my good works to a mere Mexican. By the end of the year, all my fourth-graders were college-ready and bound. It was a good feeling, but it got better after I updated my resume, sent it off to the contest, and got word that I had won! I was going to meet with Ms. Falin!
      When I first stepped off the airplane onto the tarmac, way up under the northern sun, I saw Lala wagging her pointy finger at me. The first thing she told me was:
      ‘I know you think you pulled a fast one on me, but I won’t pretend for a minute I believe there are any Muslim Americans!’
       I was at a loss for words. ‘Why not?’ I asked.
      ‘Well, I have my sources,’ Lala informed me. ‘Like, you know, the American Girls books. Now, there is a Black American Girl, and a Jewish American Girl, and one of ‘em Mexicans, and heck, even one of those indigenous Indians got into the series! Then there’s several pretty characters with lovely golden hair, but that’s a given. Have you heard of there being any Muslim American Girl? No! Refudiate that!’
       She then told me that she was looking forward to getting to know me, and sharing her life. I learned lots of things about her in the next few days: like the fact that she loved the Harry Potter series, and had read the fifth book a million times because her favorite character was Umbridge; and that her nickname was Lala Banana because everyone thought she was gooey and turned rotten real fast like those sunshiney fruits; and that her favorite food ever was reindeer chili, and that she would be happy to make me some.
      A few days into the experience, we arrived at the ‘Learn to Love a Muslim’ horse ranch. The instructor there assigned each of us a steed, on which we were to go flying over those hazy, burnished Realaskan fields. I was placed next to the reindeer, and Lala got the horse. We exchanged a glance, and promptly switched places.
     ‘Lala’s a lot more comfortable with reindeer,’ I explained to our instructor, Jamie. She shrugged.
     ‘You know it’s not really a reindeer,’ Jamie informed us. ‘It’s just another horse with reindeer antlers attached.’
      But we wouldn’t budge. Unfortunately, that meant I got the wild horse. I was nearly kicked several times, after which my horse went galloping away and Jamie had to track her down. All this time, Lala Banana was applying nail polish and touching up her lipstick. ‘What’s the big occasion?’ I asked.
     ‘Definitely not you,’ Lala smirked.
      Eventually, Lala and I came to a good understanding of each other. She even invited me to sit in on a church service. I, with good will, reciprocated by asking Lala the honor of accompanying me to a Muslim wedding.
      ‘A wedding?’ she asked, disappointed. ‘You mean you all do things other than funerals?’
      She then remembered that all Muslims are basically terrorists (‘Refudiate that!’), and was going to turn me down, but I reassured her on that point, explaining that most Muslims can only strike during the full moon, if El Nino is the strongest its been in 70 years, and if it’s been a bumper summer for new cicadas, and if Pippi Longstocking’s father is seen to sail the South Seas again. Lala and her advisors secretly shepherded this information to the FBI and other American strongholds of might and justice, and I believe they spent the better part of a year trying to decipher the hidden code. In the meantime, Lala and I galloped cross-country to Tennessee, where the wedding hall had been booked, me on my kicking horse, Lala on her reindeer disguise.
       At first, Lala kept looking around, as if waiting for someone to jump out and say, ‘boo!’ A group of women approached, most of them wearing headscarves, and you can bet Lala squirmed at that! But then they told her that she seemed like such a good mother, from what they’d watched on the news, and Lala positively glowed. When they told her she was looking so pretty, Lala positively blushed.
        The women led Lala over to the tables of spicy rice and stews. Lala took one look, said ‘‘I’ll soon fix this,’’ and started ladling gobs of reindeer soup over everything. While we were eating, my wild horse rebelled with Lala’s reindeer and got lost wandering around the city. We were left without a ride. The Imam and his wife decided to put us up for the night.
        Seated on his comfortable living room couch, Lala finally broke down. She tearfully explained that all she ever wanted was to love her home and country and her elk and caribou, and all the world, and that she had never meant to refudiate all the Peaceful Muslims. We cheered her up, put her to bed, and assured her that if she ever did run for office, we would be the first to vote her way.
        Alas, it was not to be! A new strain of the birther movement, annoyed at some maverick-like rumors coming out of Realaska, decided they’d had enough of the fifty-first state, and gave it back to Russia. Lala lost her chance. But I know that had she run a campaign, her chief platform points were to be protection of reindeer habitats and agitation for an American Girl Doll from Realaska. I will be voting for the candidate who best matches Lala’s wishes. I close by saying how thankful I am for the opportunity of meeting Lala Banana, and to all the other Peaceful Muslims out there who applied, I only hope that you too get your chance!

Selwa, Koether, Noor ch 4: Waiting on the centerfuge

This is the last bit about Noor, before the story begins to follow Koether more closely. I'm kind of having a hard time figuring out exactly who Noor is. I kind of want her to be a very calm person, but I'm not sure if that's really the case, and I don't think that's how she comes across in here. By the way, in Arabic 'auntie' would really be 'Khala', that's actually what Noor would be calling her aunt. 

Auntie! Are you okay? Called Noor.

I’m fine, habibti. I’m just finishing washing these clothes.

Can I help? offered Noor.

No, no, I’ve already gotten them in the washer. Go out and wait with the others, I’ll be right out.

Noor stepped away from the wash room and walked down the hall, with the stormy sound of the clothes-washer doing its business receding behind her. She joined her cousins at the front door.

- Noor, did you know? Amer said, as she settled on the front step between Mariam and Zeezee in her adorable red-and-white. Mariam finally lost her last baby tooth!

- oh, let me see! Noor placed her hand under Mariam’s pearly chin and tilted it upwards. Smile! Look at you! you look so cute.

Mariam laughed blushingly.

so, said Noor, winking at Amer, what did the tooth fairy get you?

silly, laughed Mariam again. There’s no tooth fairy.

- Well, well, we are quite mature! Exclaimed Noor. But are you sure? Are you positive? Cause I know a ten-year-old in Sweden who was quite sure she saw some fairy dust sprinkled over the krona she found under her pillow. You mean the tooth fairy didn’t leave you anything?

- Noor, Noor, you can’t say things like that, Zeezee broke in.

Noor steeled herself for one of Zeezee’s I’m-a-grown-8-year-old lectures, as betokened by Zeezee’s hop and step as she did a peculiar in-place march in front of Noor’s face.

- When Johanne – this was Zeezee’s school-teacher – tried telling me that the tooth fairy would come after I lost my tooth when we all ate carrots at snack-time, Mama called him later to say that Muslims don’t believe in that, even if the Danes do, and that he can’t things like that in class. And when I saw him the next day, he said he was sorry.

With resolve, Noor managed not to roll her eyes.

Auntie actually called him about that?

Yes. And she made him promise not to say things like that again.

- Well, that is a relief! nodded Noor sarcastically, reaching forward to readjust Zeezee’s crisp white headscarf. We should stomp out fairy corruption wherever we find it! Zeezee, please hold still so you’ll look presentable at the showcase. Any case, I wonder what’s taking Auntie so long. We need to leave right away, or else we’ll be late.

Still digesting the story of the misfortunate lost tooth, Noor made her way back to the washroom. It was empty, but Auntie poked her head out of the bedroom next door, which Zeezee and Mariam shared.

what are you up to, auntie? Asked Noor.

- Oh, I was just going through Zeezee’s drawer’s, straightening her clothes. You know how she keeps things a mess!

- oh, but auntie, we have to leave now. Zeezee is introducing the showcase, we can’t get there late!

- I know, I know, we won’t be late, we’ve got a couple more minutes.

- okay, auntie, please let me help you get this cleaning done faster, begged Noor. Somehow, she felt very responsible for bringing her Muslim family on-time to the punctual event.

- let’s see, why don’t you straighten the prayer rugs and prayer clothes in that closet over there, while I get Zeezee and Mariam’s outfits ready for tomorrow.

Noor stared.

- of course, aunt, I’ll really hurry. She moved swiftly to pull open the closet door, while auntie rummaged further in Zeezee’s room.

- is there anything else we need to do, asked Noor, feeling slightly desperate. Was, perhaps, the clock on the wall early?

- well, said auntie thoughtfully, I wish there was, but really I’m ready to go. It’s just that I’m waiting for the clothes-washer.

- oh, auntie, you’ve already gotten the load started! Why are we waiting?

- I just need it to start the centerfuge, explained her aunt apologetically. You see, sometimes in the centerfuge the washer makes strange noises and starts jumping around. I always stop it and untangle the clothes if that happens.

- what happens if you don’t? asked Noor.

- I’ve never left house with the centerfuge still not on, so I really don’t know, admitted auntie, as she straightened coats and winter shawls packed on the upper shelves. Don’t worry, habibti, it should start any minute now.

- I’m sure it will, agreed Noor limply, glancing anxiously at the clock.

- Noor, you go and get uncle to start the car, and get everyone in the car, so you’ll be ready as soon as I’m done.

Suppressing a groan, Noor turned to follow her aunt’s orders. The car started up, the children squeezed themselves into the back seat.

- good thing Selwa’s not here, and you’re in her place! Exclaimed Amer, as Zeezee bounced noisily on his lap.

- Zeezee, please calm down, commanded Noor, as Zeezee’s elbow pecked sharply at her ribs.

She twisted herself around against the car door.

how is Selwa doing? Asked Noor.

Fine, fine, said uncle from the driver’s seat

But not engaged yet, added Amer.

- They say she’s fatter than ever, laughed Zeezee. They say all she does is eat grandmother’s cooking! We’d never fit in the car if she was here.

- watch out now, teased Noor, leaning over to poke Zeezee in the stomach. Zeezee squealed. You might end up just like her.

- that was why Selwa left, added Amer. Not to get married, but so we could all breathe again in the car.

- Amer, stop, complained Mariam.

- Amer! Said uncle from the front.

- yes, it’s bad luck to talk like that, chimed in Noor. Zeezee, remember about the showcase.

Noor looked at the car clock.

should I go get aunt?

- No, leave her to come at her own time, advised Amer. When she washing clothes, nothing can bring her out, except maybe if the Queen walked in and ordered her. And maybe not even then.

- but I just don’t want Zeezee to be late.

- Noor, it’s okay, assuaged Zeezee. Don’t you want clean clothes tomorrow?

Selwa, Koether, Noor ch3: Noor's grandmother

Noor’s grandmother, Bibi (also known by her given name, Betool), reigned as the voice of calm and reason in the clan. Betool was not even the eldest person on the living and breathing greenery of the family tree; one of her uncles was still living, but he was in Iraq, and frail, and could be reached only through the crackly telephones. Every little while, an ominous woman’s voice would appear on the line to say, ‘‘three minutes – remaining.’’
Betool was very aware and present in all her children and grandchildren’s lives, on top of spending about ten hours a day in prayer. She knew everyone’s grades in school, and she knew who had loaned money to whom, and had such a thing occurred, she would have known precisely which of her sons-in-law was mistreating one of her daughters. Then she would have had some things to say to him. On each of her grandchildren’s birthdays, even those absent in Sweden, she consumed in flame the requisite number of candles on an old tin circle, faintly stained with waxy residue.
Sometimes, she cried a little bit, when the sad stories of the past bobbed up. Noor knew which names, with their associated traumas, to avoid mentioning. Howver, if Noor asked her, or if Koether was curious, Betool would commence the telling of the abridged, happy version of ‘The Story of Old Times’. There was the story of Betool walking to school when she was a tiny child of nine, in the black-and-white photo days of Baghdad. A man had asked the group of school children if they wanted a picture. Everyone pitched in some left-overs of pocket change.
This was a not a picture on prominent display in the Danish house. It was hidden amongst papers and trinkets in a cabinet, that Noor and Koether had once gone sleuthing through, while their grandmother and TV murmured in the background. It showed the child figure of Betool, whose hair someone had parted to a side and neatly pinned back, the straight tresses stopping primly at a puckered, obedient mouth above a porcelain oval of a chin, and a dress of some stiff material out of which popped knobbly knees.
Then there was the story about Betool when she gave birth to her first girl, and made a pact that every one of her kids must graduate college. Ah, she was not aware, then, that doing so involved the simple matter of dodging a war and a sudden exit from her homeland. But it made no matter, the decree held, just as her mother had insisted that her daughter continue school past compulsory levels.
The younger kids might listen in to these tales, but they amused themselves much more with the jokes and characters Noor related to them from the ready repertoire of her university acquaintances. She told them, when Khala Majeda had been busy with kitchen pots, about the professor who took whole groups of his students out for drinks after lectures. Mariam looked shocked, and Noor had caught Koether smirking slightly at Mariam’s ten-year-old innocence from the corner of her eye.
‘‘Does he pay for everything?’’ Amer demanded.
Hahaha, he gloated when answered in the affirmative. After some fiddling, he had transformed the story into the ‘‘professor who showed up drunk to class. Dude, he’s awesome!’’
Or, the professor who had abruptly broken off his lecture, with perhaps a hundred students’ waiting pens posed over their notebooks, to confess: ‘‘yes, I got a divorce, what can I say, I made a mistake.’’ To the immediate sympathy and collective ‘awwwwww’ of half the female section of the audience, and the rolled eyes of the rest.
Koether had just graduated from her university in Lund, and whenever anyone mentioned her new teaching job, or wanted to hear stories from the school, Koether would nod self-importantly while looking nervous.
But Mariam said rather wickedly of her older sister, ‘‘Selwa comes home with the same story every day, all about her bad grades.’’
Sh-sh, Noor admonished her, but Selwa was at that point holed up in her room, pursuant of significant chatter with an assemblage of her closest friends from school, and Koether said, rather prissily, ‘‘watch out before the same thing happens to you!’’
‘‘Koether, you planning on failing any of your students?’’ Amer asked.
‘‘No, all my students are going on to college.’’

Selwa Koether Noor ch 2: the Logic of a Kid

 This is the second chapter in the story of Noor, Koether and Selwa. They are all cousins living in separate spots in Denmark and Sweden. The most developed character is Koether (even though the story starts off focused on Noor). But i think it would all work out better if i had more things going on in Noor and Selwa's lives, but i didn't come up with anything when i planned everything out. that is something i've been trying to figure out the past few days.           

            Finally, Mariam appeared around the corner of the house, some dirt on her hands.

            “Hey, you! Salam,” called Noor.

            “Salam, Noor!” said Mariam, running for a hug, then remembering her hands.

            “Is anyone home?” Noor asked.

            “Only Bibi. I was in the backyard and didn’t hear you ring the bell till she called me.”

            “Is the front door open?”

            “Nope. I wanted to let you know first that I was coming, and now I’ll go back around and open the door for you.”

            That was Mariam’s way, Noor knew. Hearing that Noor was waiting at the door, ringing the bell, she would rush from the backyard and let her know help was incoming rather than have her older cousin stay alone the few extra seconds it would have taken to navigate through the house doors and change her shoes at the kitchen step; Noor ought to be assured immediately that deliverance was nigh. Now, she rushed back around the house, opened the back door, ran through the rooms, likely stumbling some in her haste, and finally opened the front door to give Noor a hearty welcome.

            Had Mariam’s older brother been with Noor, he would have been impatient at all the delay, and rolled his eyes at Mariam’s assumption that Noor had been waiting scared and helpless, deserted on the porch. Noor thought it sweet and took the extra minutes’ wait cordially. She had just come on the train from Sweden; it was the last week before her courses opened again at Stockholm University; school had opened for her little sister, Sara, the previous week, so this was a solo trip.

            It was a fine family for visiting. First, Noor’s grandmother, who they called Bibi, but was really named Betool. Then Majeda, who was married to Noor’s maternal uncle, Hussain. And their children: first Selwa, the oldest daughter and just a few years younger than Noor; then Amer, an adjusting teenager hawking his new store of “muscle” and hair in various areas; Mariam, a gentle ten-year-old; and ZeeZee, the youngest and most hyper of the bunch.

            They lived near the end of one of the train lines leaving Copenhagen and headed for her outskirts.