Name: Kamilla Boda
Age: 14
School: St Kilian's Community School, Bray, Co Wicklow
Aisha’s Prayer
Life has never been easy. Most people in the very southeast of the mainland know this. It’s hard, especially when bad things happen. Now, Mama says I’m safe, that we’re all safe. But as I think back, to my home village I realise that back then we had it better. That was before the bombing of course.
I was small back then, merely an infant so I scarcely remember the sound of shouting and screaming from outside waking me up, and Papa running in to grab me and Mohamed so we could get out. Now I’m eight years old, a big girl and I understand why I can’t talk about this to others. Mama says that people would think I’m different, although I feel like people here already do.
We came to Ireland when I was five. Papa says it took a lot of work to finally be able to get in, and that we should appreciate it. But I still miss home. I still miss the sweet scent of the mountains and the fresh fruits. Fruit here tastes different. They’re blunt and I don’t even feel joy swallowing them, but as Mama says I got to appreciate what I have.
“Aisha!” My Mama’s voice called and I jumped up, fixing my dress and running downstairs. Our house wasn’t big, but it always took me a minute to get down because I had to slow down at the stairs. Papa says I’ll get used to it, but I don’t really know.
“Yes mama?” I asked as I reached her, smiling up at her tired face. Mama always looked like this since we came here. She never really stepped out of the house and the lack of sunlight didn’t do any good for her either. The black circles under her eyes became a regular feature in her appearance.
“Wake the boys up, will you?”
I nodded, heading out, but turned back as I reached the doorway. “Is Papa already gone?”
She nodded, smiling weakly.
I couldn’t understand. Papa always left very early in the morning and returned very late at night. He always looked ready to sleep, but it seemed like he never actually got the time to.
“Mama, why does he work so much?”
My mother finally stood up from the table, dropping the book she was holding gently onto the table. Slowly she came over to me and bent down so we’d be eye level.
“Your Papa has a lot to do. We need to eat, Aisha.”
I shook my head. “But he works so much, I’m sure we’d get along if he only worked a little less, so he’d have time to sleep more, and so he’d have time to play with us.”
My mother smiled again, but I could see the tears dwelling in her eyes, and I found myself not understanding why.
“Your Papa has to work; living here, in Ireland is very expensive. Food costs are high, and rent is even higher. How I wish to help him, but you know that I couldn’t go to school Aisha, and I can’t speak English either.”
I nodded slowly knowing full well that in my country girls weren’t allowed to learn like boys did.
“Go wake your brothers,” she sighed.
I turned and started walking out, but turned back for a final look as she picked her book up, which I realised was an English dictionary.
On the way up the stairs, I wondered how my Mom could afford such a new looking dictionary. We never got new stuff, only cheap stuff from thrift stores.
As I reached my brothers’ door, I came to the conclusion that she must have saved up for a long time to buy one.
I stepped into the small room.
The mattresses lay on the floor. There were no pillows and thin blankets covered my siblings.
I walked over to Yasin, my smallest brother. He was only four years old and very small for his age.
I gently stroked his back, and whispered into his ear.
“Wake up. It’s time to get up.”
He opened his small eyes and stretched towards me. I picked him up, stroking his back.
“Is it time to eat?” He yawned and I could feel his stomach rumbling.
“Yes,” I said, although I wasn’t sure.
Mohamed was also beginning to wake.
“Come down when you’re ready,” I sighed and set Yasin down.
Back downstairs my mother was preparing breakfast. She had four plates laid on the table, on which there was a little food.
When my brothers came down, we all sat, eating everything up quickly.
After our meal, Yasin growled, “I’m hungry.”
And my Mama turned to look at him for a second before switching his plate with the fourth one.
“Eat up,” she said smiling.
Yasin started eating and Mohamed, my older brother, and I stared at our mother.
“Wasn’t it meant to be yours?” We asked in sync.
She smiled at us, not answering.
Then she sat down at the small table.
“We might have to move,” she sighed, diverting her eyes.
Mohamed smiled but didn’t say anything.
“Why?” Yasin asked, chewing loud.
Mama looked as if this was the one question she was afraid of, but was also ready to answer it.
“The rent here is very high, and the water and gas are very pricey too. Papa works too much for barely anything, and if we moved to a smaller house, maybe he’d get more time with us.”
Yasin shook his head.
“But I like it here.”
Mom finally looked up, and I could see tears in her eyes. “We all do.”
The phone rang, and quickly Mom got up to answer it.
We all went quiet and listened close, but we couldn’t make any of the words out.
The only sound coming from that direction was the quiet sobs of my mother.
We waited, staring at each other, passing mute guesses about what it could be.
Yasin started chewing again and me and Mohamed went into a quiet conversation.
“It’s something bad”, he said. “I can tell it from Mama’s cries.”
I nodded in agreement. “Yes. We should pray that everything is okay.” I whispered the last part. About a year ago I would’ve said it loud and clear but lately none of my prayers seemed to be answered by Allah, so I stuck to a whisper.
Mama came back precisely half an hour after she left.
It was clear that she’d been crying, because her eyes were now swollen and red.
For what seemed like forever, no one spoke. We just looked at her, and she stared at the ground.
And when she finally let the words slip, we all wished she wouldn’t have said anything.
“It’s your Papa. He got into a car crash. He’s in hospital, with a broken leg and an arm.” Her voice broke and she couldn’t continue, it was obvious that she was fighting back tears.
Mohamed stood up, dragging Yasin and me along.
“We’ll go to our rooms,” he said and we left our mother.
On the way up I could clearly hear her sobs.
That night, I could barely fall asleep. Papa was hurt, we couldn’t go see him, the hospital was far and we couldn’t afford transport.
That night I slept beside my brothers. And as I lay awake, trying my best to fall asleep I realised that we probably wouldn’t be moving into a smaller house. That we probably weren’t going to move into any house at all.
“Mohamed?” I whispered, trying not to wake Yasin up. “We’re going onto the streets, right?”
“Yes,” he sighed and turned towards me, extending a hand to hold mine.
I took it appreciatively, and looked up at the ceiling.
“Do you think ...” I couldn’t finish, and it seemed like there was no need to, because Mohamed continued.
“Yes, Allah will take care of us. It’s all going to be okay.”
I squeezed his hand, forcing a smile and closing my eyes.
Yes, Allah’s with us, and there’s no need to be scared.
But somewhere deep, I knew that this won’t go away, and we’ll end up there, without anything.
My thoughts finally disappeared as I swam into the world of dreams, but that night the only thing I dreamt about was Papa, and him smiling, and saying the words. “It’s okay, you’re there for each other.”
And I hoped, and prayed that we would be. Forever.
