Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly

She was the epitome of beauty. Sharp cheekbones, glowing skin, a pearly smile. There was nothing she did not possess. Wide and glassy doe eyes set under her dark brows that were so easy to get lost in. Her dark hair hung in a heavy curtain of ringlets down her back, swaying back and forth with each fluid step. She had the brightest smile; straight white teeth, a dimple in her left cheek, surrounded by the softest rose-petal lips. Her beauty was mesmerizing and noticeable to all, and she was well aware of it. But the essence of her charm was not her hair or her lips. It was not in her slender figure and dainty hands. Nor was it in her disarming smile and thick, beautiful hair. It was in her melodious and silky voice coupled with her captivating piano-playing.

Birds fly over the rainbow

When she sang, it was as if the entire world would stop and hold its breath in awe of the belle’s voice. Smooth and sweet as honey, clear as a crystal. She had everyone enchanted by her soothing and harmonious chords as her fingers swiftly danced over the glossy piano keys. Her music was her most cherished and prized possession; the crux of her beauty.

Why then, oh why can’t I?

Of course, as the years go by the beauty fades with it. She knew that physical beauty at least was momentary. After giving birth to her little girl, and bordering on the cusp of middle age, she was alright with it. Her hair had lost its smooth silkiness and had streaks of silver. Her eyes were still bright and full of her fire, but her skin was no longer marbled and glowy. She was alright with that. She was rounder, with fuller hips and bigger thighs. The weight was too slow coming off, but she was alright with that. She still had her melodious music; fresh and untainted by her passage through life. It was her core, and kept the fire burning inside of her lit with her passion.

Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly

Birds fly over the rainbow

Why then, oh why can’t I?

Her daughter grew listening to her mother’s voice and soft piano tunes soothe her, lull her to sleep. Her favorite song lulled her daughter to sleep on restless nights, calmed her after nightmares, and lifted her spirits when she felt down. As she grew older, her daughter blossomed in front of her and began noticing the toll old age was taking on her mother. Playing the piano was becoming more difficult; her fingers no longer glided effortlessly over the keys without error. First it started with slight aches and stiffness, causing her fingers to stick to some keys and misplay the simple tune. But it only worsened, until one day her mother couldn’t move her fingers without shooting pain electrocuting each joint. That’s when she found out: severe rheumatoid arthritis.

The diagnosis slowly smothered the fire in her mother’s eyes. There was a lump in her throat that would not go away, and her voice came out strained and different. Her muscles would spasm and her fingers would stiffen and swell, pain radiating throughout her frame. Yet the physical pain was incomparable to the grief she harboured for her music. Her mother’s eyes dimmed and she stopped trying to fuel her passion. The piano fallboard remained down, gathering dust through neglect. It was an unsaid rule: no more was the piano played or songs sung in the house.

Everything became a battle - some days she would win and a small smile would grace her lips, but other days when she found it too difficult to even get out of bed, her eyes would empty and she’d quieten. The silence was unbearable for her daughter. The anger was like a large pill lodged in her throat, on days when her mother would snap at her and refuse her help. She was losing sense of herself, and that was worse than anything the arthritis could do. She couldn’t move on her own terms. Her fingers were not her own to control anymore, her vocal chords weren’t hers to strum on her own accord.

One day when the pain was too much, her mother remained in bed for hours with her blank eyes. She refused to eat and slid in and out of consciousness, dreaming of a time when her hands worked right and her voice wasn’t hoarse.

“When I was young,” she whispered to her daughter. “I loved to sing, and no one could take that from me.”

“I know, Ma.” She brushed the hair off her mother’s forehead and caressed her face, watching as her eyes glossed over in reminiscence.

“It was a part of me,” she sighed. “And I took it away from myself.”

She was wrong. The music she sang, the piano tunes her daughter grew on - it was her. Her mother was the melody she never grew tired of singing along to. She was the constant rhythm beating inside of her, thudding underneath her ribs. She was in the words of her favorite lullaby, the smooth keys of the piano. She was in the calm drumming of raindrops and the comfort of a warm cup of cocoa. She was the anchor that pulled her out of the deepest sinkholes, the rock that grounded her. The angel that gave hope and guidance, love and compassion to a child in times when the darkness became overwhelming. Her mother had lost today’s battle but she would not let her lose the war. Brittle bones and rusty chords would not wither away her spirit. No, she wouldn’t let it.

The next morning she saw it in her eyes. The silent resignation, and she knew. Her mother was losing more and more of herself, pieces of her chipping away day by day. So she coaxed her mother out of her bed and, wrapping her arms around her, led her out to the dark piano bench. She pulled away the fallboard, and guided her mother’s fingers to the keys. She looked in eyes and saw a spark.

“Sing with me, Ma.”

If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow

Why, oh why can’t I?

When he was a child, he had the world at his fingertips and the stars in his eyes, infinite and twinkling with wonder. His mind contained the secrets of the universe, the lovely fantasies fluid, ever-changing. He was full of curiosity and fearlessly approached the world for he didn't think he had anything to fear. His world consisted of beauty and friendships and other joyful things, he so childishly believed. Happiness, that jittery, warm feeling he had when he was with his family, the taste of contentedness that left a sweet taste on his tongue. But he yearned to "grow up" and see the real world, oblivious to the storm of harsh reality awaiting outside of the comfort of his home. Still, the fantasies in his head remained preserved and untouched by the monsters in the dark corners of the world. When he was seven, his mom came home one day with tears streaming down her cheeks and her eyes full of storms of fury and the turmoil of defeat. She was afraid, and he was confused when she told his father that a man had pulled off her headscarf, demanding that she "goes back to where she came from." His father was quiet, his face smooth and pale like marble, displaying his stoniness. But he was not a stone, and his hands shook as he asked his wife to take off the scarf, it's not safe anymore. To a seven year-old boy, it made no sense to harm a woman wearing a scarf on her head. He had never seen the scarf on his mother as a separate entity, for it was a part of her. He asked his parents why someone would attempt to break off a piece of a person. There was no answer that they could give that satisfied him. The fantasies that somehow always seemed to make sense now offered no comfort to him as he watched his mother cry in sorrow. The world of make-believe was not like this in his mind. In that world, no one would pull off a woman's scarf. His parents moved to the country of opportunity, where they were promised liberty and justice for all. Here he was born, and his parents hoped he would be given a better life than the one in their previous homeland, Syria. Although his father begged his mother not to don the scarf, she remained adamant. She was a strong woman, and she wouldn't let anyone dictate her actions. As he became older, the stars that once glowed so radiantly in his eyes soon began dulling when in school he began to be the object of attention as the only one of his kind. "Muhammad, are you a terrorist?" That question was a slap in the face. How ignorant could people be? Classifying an entire populace based on the actions of a mere few. He was old enough to understand that the world is not the beautiful, joyful place he had once imagined. And that was breaking him, his paper thin skin bled the joy that his heart beat with. The fantasies that once filled him with hope and wonder were now being shattered, the sharp shards piercing his heart. He was seventeen and glaring at the world through different eyes. He did not now see through those eyes full of constellations. They were now hidden safely behind thick glass which improved his ability to see realistically and enhanced his cynicism. His hopefulness and curiosity had finally been snuffed out by the monster in the dark corners of the world. Every day he endured the bitter remarks and mindless assumptions that followed him around shoving and berating him. A large creature with hair that resembled an egg yolk blocked his path to class and opened its mouth to growl loudly in his face. The creature was warning him, it's crystal blue orbs hard and penetrating. It stared at him, and yet could not see him for what he was: a scrawny boy with unkempt brown hair and and a loud mind. He wasn't who the creature thought. But there was no use in explaining that to It. So the boy listened quietly and let himself be pushed to the ground. When he was a child, he had the world at his fingertips. The world was out of his reach, spitting on him and relentlessly attacking his spirit. After school he trudged home and painted a smile on his face for his mother. He would never speak a word of what he went through on a daily basis. His mind contained the secrets of the universe, the lovely fantasies fluid, ever-changing. His mind had been wrung of the dreams he once had. His face was sore from the plastic expression, but he continued to push up the corners of his mouth in her presence. When his father came home, he went to his room. His father knocked once and asked if he wanted to go with him to the daily prayer at the mosque. He was full of curiosity and fearlessly approached the world for he didn't think he had anything to fear. He was too afraid, too ashamed to love his faith, to practice it, to embrace it. He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, his mind now empty and his heart on fire. The world had worn down his father, now weary and grey-haired, but his spirit was still the same, his heart warm and soft. "It's okay we can go tomorrow, inshAllah," he murmured sweetly in his rough voice, full of tender chips of hope. Before he left, he told the wooden door he loved his son. His son didn't answer and the door didn't budge, and soon after the sound of retreating footsteps was heard. With his eyes closed, he breathed out some of the fire and inhaled the smoke. He was aching on the inside, itching to speak, to talk to his parents. The noise of the ticking clock and his even breathing oddly comforted him. When the ache subsided, he rose and began his daily heap of homework, per usual, when the doorbell rang. Upon answering the door he was greeted by two men in dark blue uniforms wearing blank expressions and badges on their chests. The men grunted greetings and asked for his mother. He opened his mouth but a hand on his shoulder and his mother's voice stopped him. "What is the problem?" The men in blue exchanged looks before turning to the mother and son, and uttering the words that cut into him so deeply he couldn't breathe. His father was dead. Mosque. Man with gun. The boy stiffened as the words hit him one after another. His mother's heart was broken and bleeding. The wound inflicted on her was impossible to heal, and within a few days her heart became too weak to continue pumping, and gave up. He was alone and homeless. The place he once lived in wasn't a home anymore; it was a prison and he was trapped. "Not a hate crime," the men in blue said. "The man got away but we're doing the best we can." Not a hate crime. Were they blind? Or were so ignorant that they were unable to recognize the truth? The worst motivator was hate, and yet it was the only emotion that made a difference in the world. Love never changed the world. Happiness was too scarce to fix anything. But hatred, the vileness in all humans was enough to destroy everything. And it did. It incinerated his family, stole the only ones who loved him. He cried until his eyes were emptied of tears but the pain in his heart didn't lessen. Everything he wanted to say to his parents-every word, every thought-was now forever locked in his brain behind his mouth, leaving a sour aftertaste on his tongue. His world consisted of beauty and friendships and other joyful things, he so childishly believed. His world had torn apart. A month later he turned eighteen and was able to live on his own with the money left behind by his parents. He vowed to thicken his skin and harden his heart so no one would be able to cut him. He started to steel himself over and over until he stops bleeding, replacing his once paper thin skin. He's cynical and realistic-realizing that the world is not a just place and men aren't just creatures. Happiness, that jittery, warm feeling he had when he was with his family, the taste of contentedness that left a sweet taste on his tongue. Constantly reaffirming his imperviousness, he pushed people away before they got a chance to get close to him. His eyes no longer held twinkling stars, rather they contained black holes. The world was not within his reach. He used to be able to fly through the endless sky and travel different worlds, his imagination crossing galaxies and realms. Those parts of his brain were carved out. He was hardened cement, smoothed over the cracks in the foundation of his livelihood and unaffected by trauma and the weight of helplessness. The monsters that had slipped through the cracks were his only companions, dwelling in the dark corners of his mind. He found his faith when he finally mustered up the courage to go to the mosque again. It was then he decided to embrace his religion and his heritage, and began to discover himself. When he was twenty-two, he visited his parents for the first time in years, his heart full of words. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he started to speak, beginning with: "Assalamu Alaikum."