Thousands of families have been forced to evacuate from Gaza with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

Nurse shot in operating theater in Khan Younis hospital.

Air pollution is a major problem in Gaza.

The damage of White House actions and inaction over Gaza to America’s reputation and Palestinian lives will be permanent.

[“What Did You Just Say?“, MuslimMatters’ new column, is a space for people to respond to corporate media and its shills. Our voices are often muzzled and views on their coverage are not published. 
So, if you’ve read or watched something that made you do a double take or have shredded a publication’s piece with your critique in a Letter to the Editor or Op-ed and it wasn’t published, do send it to us for consideration via our submission form link.

All opinions are the views of the writer alone and not representative of MuslimMatters.org.]

***

Dear Ms. Julia Hartley-Brewer,

By now I’m sure that you are very familiar with the constructive feedback you’ve received regarding your disastrous interview with Palestinian MP Dr. Mustafa Barghouti early last month.

Here’s more.

Your track record as a so-called journalist is well known to be a continual stream of racism, bigotry, manipulation, and Islamophobia. This time, however, while interviewing Dr. Mustafa Bargouti on BBC and Talkradio, you really blew a fuse.

Quite frankly, speaking as an old crone, Muslim Irish American hippie, and frenemy, I must say that you proved how much of a failed feminist you are. Your choice to profile Muslim men as misogynists by using Dr. Barghouti as your scapegoat was wrong in oh so many ways.

Let me count the ways;

Your ignorance regarding Muslim women and men was a sad testament to the worn-out, stereotypical negative propaganda that has floated through the media atmosphere for years. This outdated brand of misinformation has been overused, and misconstrued, and is typical of a desperate attempt to detour from the issues at hand: the ongoing genocide of Palestinians.

Your disrespect towards Dr. Barghouti was not only publicly embarrassing but a stain on your character.

Those mistakes led you to wrong yourself even more by backing into a corner of arrogance and trumped-up victimhood, topped off with a complete lack of professionalism. You ignored so many opportunities presented during your interview with Dr. Barghouti to fearlessly embrace the Palestinian narratives he spoke of. Instead, you lost out on a golden moment to prove your worth as a respectable journalist.

Which leads me to ask; why did you choose journalism as a profession in the first place? As the world has witnessed, your performance was not that of a professional, objective journalist with an eye for the truth, but that of a hateful, ignorant sensationalist.

It’s not too late to remedy your character and lack of education, though.

Do some research. Differentiate between religious teachings vs negative cultural practices. Don’t let the thought of learning Palestinian history make your heart freeze either. Seriously, there’s no harm in reading and reading and reading to educate. And then read some more.

Volunteer. Strike out to parts unknown to you, and do something valuable, such as teaching English to refugees.

If you don’t, Julia, you’ll only be known as the woman who shamed herself in front of the entire world. What you don’t want to have on your record is your failure to communicate effectively in a fair and balanced approach to journalism.

Honestly, as a grandmother of grandchildren of multi-religious heritages, I am sick and tired of protesting this nonsense, but I have to, for their sake.

Let your freak fly. Shake loose of the fear-mongering and hate speech you have so pitifully adhered to. Go gray. Wear flats.

And then, someday, take yourself into your private adobe, turn on YouTube and watch your interview with Dr. Barghouti, again and again. Step away from yourself and analyze the journalist Julia Hartley-Brewer. Reflect. Ask yourself, why was I so angry, hostile, a bully? Is she the person I want my family to remember her by?

Julia, let me repeat, it’s not too late to start anew. Imagine that you get canned for your incompetence. Such a life-altering occurrence could very well be the highlight of your year. A new beginning.

It may be the catalyst for change you never knew you needed. Bend with the times. Embrace your twist of fate.

Take volumes of encyclopedias from the countless stories of Palestinians who currently, and for the past 75 years, have endured, patiently persevering under occupation from the brutality of the Israeli regime as examples to steadily move forward.

The narratives from Palestinians and their supporters do not belong to Western media outlets and Zionists. With Gaza and all occupied areas of Palestine undergoing genocide being openly visible through social media and professional media outlets, it is no wonder you scream on screen.

But it does no good for your Zionist cause. You have gifted us with the truth of how Israel has treated Palestinians for years. The world sees, has removed their blinders, and are mad as hell and not going to take this anymore.

Finally, I’m reminded of one of my favorite songs from the 60’s, “Turn! Turn! Turn!” by the Byrd’s, who lifted spirits during those trying times via some verses from the Bible, the book of Ecclesiastes.

As the song lyrics professed:

“To everything, turn, turn, turn

There is a season turn, turn, turn

 And a time to every purpose under Heaven

A time to gain, a time to lose

A time to rain, a time of sow

A time for love, a time for hate

A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late.”

These song lyrics are a reminder of our commonalities of humanity. We are all made from the same clay [Surah Al-Hijr: 15;26] you know.

So, Julia; turn, turn, turn…

 

[Take Action: Demand The Resignation of Julia Hartley Brewer. Contact the BBC to fire Hartley-Brewer for her continued racist and Islamaphobic comments on air. Click this link to access our handy-dandy letter tool – it takes 10 seconds from start-to-finish to send a letter to the BBC.]

 

Related:

– “What Did You Just Say?”: Introducing The New MM Open Letter Series I Dear Mr. Fareed Zakaria

– The Importance Of Palestinian Stories [Interview]

 

The post “What Did You Just Say?” : The MM Open Letter Series I Dear Ms. Julia Hartley-Brewer appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A year and a half ago, Hindus and Muslims clashed in the streets of one of Britain’s most diverse cities. What lay behind the violence?

On Saturday 17 September 2022, the weekend before the Queen’s funeral, 300 men marched through Leicester. Their faces were hidden by Covid masks and balaclavas as they made their way to Green Lane Road in Highfields, an area in east Leicester with a large Muslim population. On WhatsApp, it had been billed as a Hindu neighbourhood safety march. “It’s very important for every Hindu to attain [sic] this meeting,” an organiser wrote. “Otherwise in future, we will have to live in fear.”

It was early evening, and as the men passed rows of terrace houses, redbrick warehouses and the Piccadilly Cinemas, which was advertising a Hindi-language epic set during the British Raj, they chanted “Jai Shree Ram” (“Victory to Lord Rama”). This phrase has long been an innocuous declaration of religious faith, but in recent decades, it has become associated with the politics of Hindu nationalism in India, where militants use it as a rallying cry in campaigns of intimidation and violence against minorities, particularly Muslims. The men also shouted other slogans that have become associated with the Hindu right: “Bharat Mata Ki Jai” (“Victory to Mother India”) and “Vande Mataram” (“Praise Mother [India]”).

Continue reading...

Activist Hazami Barmada on protesting outisde of Antony Blinken’s house (10:57); Ali Abunimah on major boycott victories (34:20); Jon Elmer on resistance in Gaza (57:34); a discussion on a possible ceasefire proposal (1:46:22); and a news update (1:08).

All sense of meaning has collapsed over the past few months.

Spain and Belgium’s Wallonia region also suspend weapons exports to Tel Aviv.

Starbucks also sees protests, decline in sales due to Israeli genocide in Gaza.

Pledge to end foreign interference proves hollow.

At least 100,000 Palestinians are killed, injured, or missing and presumed dead.

“There are so few healthcare facilities that can deliver a baby when something goes wrong,” says Laila Baker of UN agency for sexual and reproductive health.

Hillary Clinton set to spread Israel’s lies justifying genocide at Columbia University forum.

The war on Palestinians in Gaza has been referred to as a war on men, a war on women, and a war on children. The war on Palestinians in Gaza is all this and more: it is also a war on education.

Before the conflict escalated and education was unjustly restricted, Palestinians were educationally successful. In the State of Palestine, education is compulsory for those in grades 1-10 and the completion of grade 10 is required for the completion of basic education (United Nations Children’s Fund). In 2022, the completion rate for basic education was at 88 percent and the completion rate for secondary education was at 63 percent. Even with these completion rates, Palestinians have one of the highest literacy rates in the world. The Palestinian Central Bureau of Statistics found that both males and females ages 15-24 in the Gaza Strip had a literacy rate of 99.4 percent in 2022. However, we are now seeing a war on education as the education in Gaza has been completely disrupted and students in Gaza have no access to education.

Scholasticide in Gaza

According to the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), even though the Palestinian population is one of the most literate in the world, “the [Palestinian] education system is in disrepair and failing, due largely to effects of the Israeli occupation [through] insufficient school infrastructure, lack of adequately trained teachers, and a lack of access to schooling in marginalized areas.”1 Over fifteen years ago, the systematic destruction by Israeli forces on centers of education was termed a “scholasticide.” They bombed the Ministry of Education, they destroyed the infrastructure of teaching, and schools across the Gaza Strip were targeted for attack by air, sea, and ground offensives (The Guardian). Now, as Israel wages a war on education, another scholasticide is occurring in Gaza.

Targeting of Gaza’s Students, Educators, and Institutions

Scholasticide (PC: Al Jazeera)

Since early November, no student in Gaza has been able to attend school as the Ministry of Education suspended the 2023-2024 school year due to the indiscriminate targeting of schools. 625,000 children have been out of school for over 100 days and Gaza’s children have lost a combined 196,918 years of education (AJ+). The Palestinian Ministry of Education attested that at least 4,327 students have been killed, over 7,800 students have been injured, 231 teachers and administrators have been killed, and over 750 teachers and administrators have been injured. The indiscriminate targeting of schools places a heavy toll on students and educators in Gaza as a result of this scholasticide. According to Scholars Against the War on Palestine (SAWP), 70 percent of Gaza’s education infrastructure has been damaged or destroyed. Israel has damaged over 350 schools and they have bombed every university in Gaza. The education institutions that remain are being used as shelters for Palestinians who have been displaced and forced to flee their homes (Save the Children). It is unlikely that schools can reopen while the Israeli forces continue to target Gaza’s students, educators, and education institutions. In addition, it will take years to rebuild the education infrastructures that were destroyed and it will take time to ensure an established education system for the people of Gaza.

Students with Disabilities

The lack of access to education is going to be particularly difficult for Palestinian students with functional disabilities and physical disabilities. The most common functional disabilities in Palestine are emotional, cognitive, and behavioral (United Nations Children’s Fund). Before the conflict escalated, four out of five children in Gaza were living with depression, fear, and grief (The Guardian) and it was estimated that more than a quarter of Gaza’s children required psychosocial support due to past trauma (UNICEF). Clearly, the impact of violence significantly impacts children and their mental health from an emotional, cognitive, and behavioral realm. The traumatic experiences the individuals in Gaza have suffered through is going to affect them in numerous ways and it will increase the number of individuals living with severe mental health conditions and functional disabilities.

Students with functional disabilities in Palestine were already limited in their access to education and the war is only going to make matters worse. In 2022, children with functional disabilities were over-represented among children who were not attending school in Palestine. While children with functional disabilities represent 15 percent of all children, they constitute 39 percent of children who are out of school at the basic level of education and 20 percent of children who are out of school at the secondary level (United Nations Children’s Fund). These numbers demonstrate that there was already a lack of access to education for students with functional disabilities, so this war on education and educational institutions is only going to worsen the lack of access to education for students with physical disabilities in Gaza.

In Palestine, the most common physical disabilities relate to walking and seeing (United Nations Children’s Fund). The recent Israeli bombardment has led to over 1,000 children losing one or more limbs (AJ+) and more than ten children a day lose a limb in Gaza. The statistics for children with functional disabilities can give an idea of what the statistics might look like for children with physical disabilities, but having a physical disability in an area like Gaza is going to make attending school exceptionally more difficult. With 70 percent of Gaza’s education infrastructure damaged, there is no guarantee that the infrastructures still standing will survive or whether they are accommodating and accessible to children with physical disabilities.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the systematic destruction of educational institutions in Gaza is undeniably a war on education. Palestinians are known to be one of the most literate people in the world and Gaza alone has a staggering literacy rate of 99.4 percent for males and females ages 15-24. The high rates of literacy in Gaza show a deep love and appreciation for education, but that love and appreciation is being hindered as Israel continues to target schools through their heinous crimes.

The war on education is more than just destroyed infrastructure that can eventually be rebuilt. The war on education specifically targets children by attacking their education institutions that were created for the purpose of providing education for thousands of children who deserve the right to learn in a safe environment. The purposeful targeting of schools and education infrastructures being destroyed limits, if not completely eliminates, the access students have to education and the resources they need to succeed academically.

Regardless of what they have endured, Palestinians in Gaza have demonstrated a long history of resistance and success within the realm of education. Education is significant to the Palestinian tradition and the Palestinian revolution, and the Palestinians in Gaza are a perfect example of this. For Palestinians everywhere, education is liberation and a right they deserve to have.

 

Related:

– 5 Steps To Grow From Passive To Active Bystanders During The Genocide Of Gaza

– MuslimKidsMatter | The Prisoner of Life Poem (Ode to Children in Gaza)

1    https://www.undp.org/sites/g/files/zskgke326/files/migration/ps/UNDP-papp-research-PHDR2015Education.pdf

The post Real Time Scholasticide: The War On Education In Gaza appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Leaked plan submitted to European firm would divide conquered territory into “area of hope” and “area of terror.”

What comes next will not be what was before.

The Palestine Red Crescent Society has completely run out of some medicines.

Exclusive: Party figure says it has work to do to retain support as poll shows drop in Starmer’s popularity

Labour has much work to do to retain support among Muslim voters, a senior party figure has said as a poll suggested the party had lost a portion of its Muslim voter base over its handling of the Israel-Gaza war.

Only 43% of British Muslims who backed Labour at the 2019 general election are willing to do so again at the next general election expected this year, the survey finds.

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Apis cerana indica. Sonali knew that was Latin for “Indian honeybee.” “Shehed ki makhi” in Urdu. But in her own language, she called them “my best friends.”

Not that she had anything against people, of course. She thought that humans behaved like bees. Some were workers, like her, an ayah who cooked and cleaned from sunup until sundown. Other bees were queens, like the memsahib that she worked for. Then there were drones, like her husband, a man rarely found doing things inside of the house. Or, as Sonali liked to think of it, the Hive.

The Hive was her work, and their home. It was one of the many cream-colored British residences in colonial India that bathed in yellow when the sun rose. The verandas and other rooms were constructed like combs, perfectly measured and angled. Victorian, named after their queen-of-queens.

Unseen, there was venom. But some workers tried their best to make honey. Bearded repairmen would ask for a few moments to pray as their turbaned compatriots would carry out the rest of the task. After burying seeds and pulling out weeds, women washed their hands and feet together. Then they would readjust one another’s veils.

How did it look when they all went home? Sonali imagined them casting off the white for red bindis and colorful saris, the men trimming out their black mustaches and the women combing their braids.

The daydream would go further than that. They might all sprout wings and bumble atop one another just to finish their work faster. But if they could have flown away on their own wings, they wouldn’t have stayed in the Hive in the first place.

Sonali had no choice. Well, limited choice. She could have chosen the gardens instead, like so many of the other ladies. Even her husband had chosen the gardens, in order to pay for something called a “mahr.” He had insisted on it, going so far as to completely reject the dowry her family had prepared for her wedding.

“After all,” he had argued, “Sonali means ‘made of gold.’ That is dowry enough for me.”

“Chatta” was the word he had taught her next. After his duties at the Hive were fulfilled, he rushed back to their village to tend to his bees. There were crates of them. No refined hives, just simple crates that he had fastened with a lid and fitted with frames. The base was a shelf that could be drawn out, as a brood box.

Humble lodgings, like their bungalow. Later, she would learn that apis cerana indica were the easiest to keep without fancy structures. In a backyard, even. Sonali thought that there was something enchanting about it, seeing workers thrive outside of a hive. Happy. Working together.

“What’s your colony like, Dost?” she asked the queen of them one day. They all had their family name, apis cerana indica. It only made sense that they should have regular names, too. Saheli was another queen, in a different box in their backyard.

“I know you have a hierarchy. But if you have a queen, I wonder if that makes me the empress. What a thing, to be in charge of others.”

Her husband laughed. “They live in a democracy, actually.”

“What?!”

“Yes!” He placed a hand on one of the frame’s edges. Out came the threaded comb, dripping with honey and cloaked in wax. His finger pointed at the bees there. “It’s the workers that make the decisions. They look around, all around, and choose a new home for themselves. Isn’t that amazing?”

Sonali raised her eyebrows. He laughed again at her expression, which was all the more amusing as she tried to work carefully. The gloves on her own hands made her clumsier rather than confident, and her tasks took twice as long to complete. Adnan preferred to work barehanded, finding the equipment utterly suffocating in the heat. “And besides, life’s full of stings,” he had commented once, “there’s no point in trying to avoid them.”

As he closed the lid of the box, she peered into the bottom shelf. The brood box, where tiny hexagons protected larvae and showed the intimate display of workers feeding the babies.

“That will be you, insha’Allah,” he said softly.

Another word he had taught her. She had already begun to say the same prayers that he did well before their marriage, contradicting the ones her Hindu parents had taught her, but she still had much to learn. 

Rather than think of a new name for herself, the two of them decided to spend their time coming up with one for their child. His prayer became true: his wife did feed their baby, but for only a few weeks—and sadly, he didn’t live long enough to see the sight. A short while after, daughter became like father, and Sonali was left only to feed herself. Then the memsahib expected twins. 

Sonali was soon hired as their worker; nurse, nanny, and mother.

No matter what time of year it was, the family would wear glowing whites. It was all the more pronounced when the memsahib met with other queens of other hives. Sonali would try not to stare at women and their children longingly as she served them. Keeping herself busy was the cure to yearning for a queen’s life.

The three of them grew close. They began to tell her their frustrations and anxieties. One was that their mother never read to them. She thought that fairytales, especially, were silly. Here, Sonali saw an opportunity to change her own fate. Craft her own story. 

Instructions on reading began the way any children’s lessons should: as a game. She pointed to random objects and named them in Urdu. They understood, and replied in English. Sometimes, they would even start the vocabulary exchange, little sailors taking after their father’s trade.

“William,” and then, “Jacob.”

“Sonali.”

“Mother.”

“Maan.”

“Beta.”

“Son.”

In private, she began referring to them only as that—“beta.” It confused them at first, and they kept repeating their names. Then something inside of them clicked. After their mother had caught wind of the game, she, too, tried to join.

“Ayah,” she stressed to them.

“Sonali,” they both replied.

The queen lost this game over and over again. With no duties confining her to the house, or to her children, she would visit the bazaar and other memsahibs. Entertaining others became her own game.

Meanwhile, the trio soon ran out of words inside. The two boys urged her to take their exercise outside. As to be expected, their mother was hosting someone—this time, their aunt. They hardly paid her any mind.

“Honeybee!” they exclaimed as soon as they saw it.

A small hive was in plain sight, dangling from the tip of one of the garden trees. It was a wonder that it hadn’t been struck down by one of the other staff.

Softly, Sonali responded. “Shehad ki makhi.”

She tilted her head towards their mother and aunt. They protested at the suggestion,

ante-hamersmit

pouting faces making them seem baby-like in their ivory suits. She thought to make the moment into another lesson.

“Chatta.”

“Chatta, chatta!” They tried on the word like they did their clothes that morning. The two giggled, and continued.

“Hive!” William chirped.

Now, Jacob had to counter this move. He had to prove that was worthy of being read to. That he would revere the words told to him, and to offer a better word in return.

He cleared his throat. “Apiary.”

***

“Aypiehree?”

The two boys erupted in sounds of triumph as soon as she repeated the phrase, as though she had performed a magic trick. They only became quiet when she added, “Apiary stings. Come.”

Under the veranda’s shade, their mother eyed the display with feigned curiosity. The aunt, her fellow queen, was too absorbed in conversation to notice. But Sonali understood the message. She shushed the twins gently. If they were too loud, especially in front of guests, it would reflect poorly on her. Better that they were all inside while the memsahib entertained.

“I don’t know how you all have managed so long, Charlotte,” her sister said, as the three of them passed by. “I’ve only just married. And you’ve been doing this for… what has it been now, six years?”

Seven, Sonali thought, a boy’s hand in either one of her own, hardly believing her own statement. Had it truly been that long since she had been widowed? It was phenomenal, how two young boys could fill days with joy instead of grief for a grown man.

“Seven,” Charlotte said. “Though, you’re right, Gabrielle. You know, it’s getting to be a bit much. If only you’d delayed your wedding a few months!” She sighed, giving dramatic pause for effect. “I would’ve been able to attend.”

Gabrielle gaped. “You’re coming back to England?! Oh, whatever shall you do there?”

Sonali would have readily answered “Not much,” but she knew her presence was already barely tolerated around a conversation like this. The two women must have doubted how much she could understand. She thought to let them keep doubting her.

Beekeeping, she thought instead, allowing the boys to eventually gasp in the discovery their mother had laid out for them. She waited, on standby, for when they would be all waved inside.

Charlotte chose instead to wave her fan lazily instead. “Gardening is… well, you know, it’s not really the most enjoyable pastime for me… and knitting is practically useless this time of year.”

Queens always drew out their words. They were afforded the time to. English, too, was a strange language. It always required embellishments. Enjoyable. Practically. And on top of that, to enunciate the words you were using to give power to the rest of the sentence.

“And with the ayah here, I haven’t had much of an inclination towards the kitchen. Although the boys have. Their appetite grows as much as their bodies do! Isn’t that right?”

The twins answered in harmony. Sonali echoed a sigh in her mind. Beekeeping.

“And reading just takes up so much time.” Time that you have. “I used to love it back home, to lounge in the salon, but, oh, it’s such a wait for anything to arrive from home. So I’ve thought about something that might even be educational for the boys as well. Beekeeping.”

“Beekeeping?!” Charlotte exclaims.

Jinx. A word from the boys. Perhaps if Sonali had said it aloud, she would be owed something.

“Yes. Beekeeping.” The two queens sounded like bees, too, with the repetition of the word. As though they were syncing their hums. “We’ll get some lovely honey out of it. And it’ll give them something to do. The ayah takes care of pretty much everything else. I don’t want them to be completely at a loss when it comes to maintaining a home.”

Too late. Even now, they would once more need to be reminded not to drag their dirty shoes inside of the home, though even the adults were guilty of that. Sonali herself refused to wear shoes inside, even though Charlotte had always allowed her to.

“But Lottie, I do worry for your boys. What if they’re stung? As sick as they get with colds, I doubt allergies will do them any better.” Gabrielle had fallen ill as soon as she had moved here with her husband. Sonali knew, because her sister had asked to procure the finest honey for her.

“Oh, the ayah will take care of them.” Charlotte looked back at Sonali. “She always does. Don’t you?”

The twins answered “Yes!” at the same time, gazing at her with an adoration Sonali rarely saw. This caught her off-guard. Was their mother talking about the children, or the eventual bees? 

Sonali realized it did not matter. She nodded, and the queen waved them all away.

***

The queen and her drone would have their bees, and Sonali would have her work. But not until after a long journey.

For Charlotte, it was one inconvenience after another. How sick her twins were, how sick her husband got, how sick she got. Sonali spent most of her time nursing them all back to health. At first, it was overwhelming, all three of them—but decided that it was for the best. It allowed her to do her job in silence, without others hovering around her. Moreover, it kept her busy. If she had been idle for a second, she thought she might fall ill too, consumed by the anxieties of being uprooted.

The boys, when they recovered, could not be separated from her side. Unable to play on the ship as they used to in the Hive, they fervently read whatever books they’d brought. There was a wide array of new vocabulary, mostly from picture books and maps. “Suez Canal,” “Egypt,” “London.”

Thankfully, they moved on from geography. Their mother had prepared somewhat for their adventure-after-an-adventure. A book about bees was their next read. “Hierarchy.” “Worker.” “Queen.”

Charlotte made a slow recovery. Her lips pursed when she saw Sonali walking around with her twins. It bothered the ayah at first, but then she assumed that the mother would do the same if she wasn’t with them at all. 

She must miss her hive, she thought. The ship, after all, wasn’t hers to command.

But soon, all of them would be in England. What kind of life would be there waiting for her? Caretaking both sets of hives and houses, bees and boys. But not all staff from the Hive had come to join. There was no question as to why Sonali had gone with the family to England.

“Where are your parents?” William asked her.

“At home.” A simple answer to a complicated question. Marrying a Muslim was one thing. Becoming one had been another.

That didn’t satisfy Jacob at all. “That’s all right. You can have ours.”

“No, thank you.”

The boys burst into laughter. She allowed herself a smile for their sake, even though she rarely saw the memsahib’s husband enough to form an opinion of him. Then her heart sank. That meant that the boys hardly saw him, either.

After three weeks, Sonali entered the house with the apprehension that she would be the only one to uphold it. To her surprise, other workers were there, wearing black instead of white. It was as if they were observing a different kind of funeral for lives they could have had, outside this hive. 

England is colder, she thought, it makes sense that they would wear darker clothes. Sonali wondered when she would receive her new outfit, the irony being that it wouldn’t truly be hers at all.

“You’ll be tending to the apiary, ayah.” 

Charlotte’s tone was less informational and more instructional. Here, she was queen again, and Sonali was her worker.

In this new hive, the boys were quickly exhausted with their own kind of obligations. They had seven years of relatives and friends to catch up with. Often, they’d glance back at Sonali before they left the house. She was a part of their family, they’d argue. Why couldn’t she come? And the response always was, “The ayah will stay where she’s supposed to: the house.”

It was hard, at first, to be separated from the boys she had raised. From their birth, they’d been inseparable. She dressed mechanically in the beekeeping outfit they had bought for her, and returned to the hive outside. Here, she felt a little of her old home. Hands felt the familiarity of the frames, combing gloved fingers over combs. Workers of all kinds conducting their rituals. Tending to their queens. And ultimately, to their hive.

Sometimes Sonali dared a pause to look at the window behind her. The boys spent much more time inside since the move. Pouring over books, ones that their mother had assigned. Certainly not fairytales. Charlotte would hover above them, her gaze as piercing as a bee’s stinger.

Sonali talked less to the bees, then, fearing that she might be heard. But the venom remained, the same way it had in the Hive. The boys were well on their way to becoming drones, instructed on tone and speech. How to compose themselves. What to talk about to others. Their queen did the same for Sonali, too, even when there was nothing to be said. Drilling her, inquiring if this or that had been done. And if it had been done, to do it again.

Only English was allowed, as they “weren’t in India anymore.” The day came where she proposed referring to Sonali only as “ayah,” or even worse, “the ayah.”

Jacob corrected her immediately. “That isn’t her name.”

“Right! It isn’t! She told us what it meant!” William crossed his arms. “It’s quite lovely, Mother. Jacob, tell her!”

“Made of gold.”

 Sonali couldn’t find a word that described the noise that the queen made, in Urdu or English. A thinly-veiled noise of surprise, laced with a scoff.

“Oh, I’ve forgotten how smart my boys are. Two languages. Everyone else will be so jealous.” She gave them both a pat on their heads, and Sonali noted that both of them hardened against their mother’s touch. “What say you both, that we come up with a new name for Sonali? Ayah Sofia?”

“I don’t like it at all.” William remained disapproving. Jacob frowned, only looking more upset. Why, Sonali didn’t know, but she didn’t think to question it. She held on too tightly to the queen’s other phrase. Who was this “everyone else,” and why would they be jealous?

“… The boys are tired, ma’am.” Her voice sounded small, even more so in a tongue that hers didn’t speak fluently. “I will put them to bed.”

Surprisingly, the suggestion smoothed over the queen’s face. “That’ll do. They’ve a long day tomorrow.”

Jacob and William skulked. They hated bedtime, so Sonali thought to combine it with something better: storytime. She had gotten better at understanding the sentences, and the boys were so lively that sometimes she thought she could grasp what the characters were actually saying. 

That night, they told her of a woman named “Cinderella.” It was a strange name, even for one in English. “Cinder” was for the ashes, they said. “Ella” could be short for Eleanor, or a name in itself. The possibilities went on. Like their imaginations.

That’s when she chided them both for stalling their sleep. William looked disappointed, as though his plan had been foiled. Jacob seemed proud. He almost wanted to be found out, like a criminal having devised his plan so that a hero could foil it.

“Jaagori in the morning?” yawned Jacob. 

“Insha’Allah, beta.”

William groaned. “But we adore them.” 

She couldn’t help but grin, try as she might to resist. They knew that a jaagori was a lullaby told to children as they woke up. And more importantly, they knew that “insha’Allah,” wasn’t a yes–it was an implied maybe. But, if she said yes, they knew that sleep would give them something to look forward to. 

“Will you, Sonali, please?”

“Yes, please?”

She swept the hair from their eyes—it was time for them to get a haircut—and they softened. “Yes. Insha’Allah.”

They all knew to speak in whispers, especially with words like “jaagori” and “insha’Allah.” Sonali waited until their eyes had shut before going to open the door.

The queen was waiting for her.

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Peace and quiet!” 

Sonali’s eyes twitched. The boys were trying to sleep, for God’s sake. But perhaps their mother wanted them to hear this confrontation. She pictured them pressing their heads to the wall to eavesdrop. William urging Jacob over, too much worry in his young eyes.

The memsahib smiled, the one that Sonali recognized was drenched in venom and not honey. “There’s only one night left, and I can’t wait.”

Some questions were meant for Sonali to answer. Others were not. It felt like Charlotte was a fisherman, dangling a wriggling worm. Hoping that her prey would bite the bait.

“Wait for what?”

“Boarding school.” 

The words stung harder than any insect bite. The twins—her boys—away from home, now? Leaving her alone with the queen and no one to keep her company but the bees? 

“… I will get them ready in the morning, ma’am.”

“There’s no need. You’re being dismissed.” 

Sonali gaped.

All the questions she had, now—the ones about the journey home, her pay, her livelihood, were answered in one quick, dismissive statement.

“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

***

It was time to say goodbye to her boys and the bees, her best friends.

Sonali wanted to keep her promise to her boys. The queen might have dismissed her from her worldly duties in the morning, but there was one obligation for her to fulfill first.

PC: muhsin ck (unsplash)

Fajr. Her favorite prayer. When she was married, it was one of the only two that they could share together. Ẓuhr, ‘Asr, Maghrib, ‘Isha. Sleepy, yes, but also serene. Before everyone else’s voices would wake, bombarding her with orders and demands, it would just be hers reciting Allah’s Words. The most intimate conversation, gently commanded to be recited out loud, as opposed to the three silent prayers that came after. No one else could ask anything of her during this time. In a strange way, the prayer prepared her for a day of just that – being talked to.

The best part was that she could take her time with it. Ẓuhr and ʿAsr were often rushed in between her day-to-day tasks. Maghrib, too, was hasty, as she would be preparing the twins for bed. ʿIsha was slow, too, but more from exhaustion. After a night’s rest, Fajr was less like a gale and more like a breeze.

She concluded it with supplication. This too was a relief; moments of freedom with her Lord, outside of the confines of the English’s cages. There was nothing for her to hold back, or rethink.

“My Lord. I have lost everything I lived for. I can’t–” 

A sob choked her. 

“I can’t clean or cook anymore. I don’t know how I can provide for myself.”

The house was long spotless from the other maids. Instead of relief, she felt used.

“I can’t take care of these boys. I can’t take care of the bees. And I have no home. Please.” Desperate now, running out of words. “Please.”

She packed all of her belongings, left the room as tidy as she was expected to. As clean as it was, the air was stifling. Her throat was dry and her lungs begged for clean air.

The queen and drone slept peacefully as their worker flew down the hallway, tiptoes allowing her to creep down the hall and stairs. Like a fly on the wall.

The apiary outside seemed to have waited for her. It was dark, but she knew exactly where she was. She had spent so much time there, more than this new Hive, even, and for a moment, she felt like her prayers had been answered. That she was home.

“Goodbye, my friends,” she whispered.

“Quite the play you put on! More drama, more drama, I say!”

Sonali gasped. Something the size of her index finger buzzed and flitted around her, glowing like a firefly. Were they out this early? It couldn’t be. Not with all of the homes around. 

She stepped back, swatting, realizing all too late that she had forgotten her beekeeping outfit.

“Left—right—oh, so close!” The voice was high-pitched and lilting, like a bell tinkling inside of a corner shop. “Really, now! We know each other! And with how you are—so observant—you should know me!”

“… The queen?” Sonali asked.

“Close.” A laugh. “Fairies have their own queen.”

A fairy?! 

“A worker,” she said, circling Sonali in an act of inspection. It was as if she was responding to the question in Sonali’s head. “A lot like you!” 

She flew closer to Sonali’s face. The fairy was the exact picture from the twins’ books of fairytales. She looked human, but tiny, with skin the color of summer peaches. Her outfit was clearly handmade, stitched and sewn of marigold petals. Four wings sprouted from her back, not unlike a bee’s, iridescent and mesmerizing. Her eyes were pools of ink, entirely and disconcertingly black. If Sonali stared too long at the fairy’s gaze, she feared she might tumble forward and into those endless pools, drowning within them.

Cinderella had a fairy too. Sonali cleared her throat. And she had been helpful.

“… Hello, fairy. How do you do?”

“How do you do indeed! Finally, some manners.” The wings buzzed as she hovered to perch on Sonali’s outstretched hand. “But I don’t blame you. Because you’re not really you right now. We’re hardly ever ourselves when we’re sad.”

Sonali sighed.

“Alas! It’s usually a joy to be right, but not so in times of sorrow.” She rubbed her tiny palms together impishly. “But what causes it? You have a house. You have people to be with. A family to forever have fun.”

“The Hive—the bees—the boys—they are all I am.”

“Oh!” The fairy puckered her lips. It was a childish imitation of sympathy, but strangely, Sonali didn’t think it to be less sincere. “You were thrust away from your Hive!”

Sonali nodded. The fairy was more human than the queen had been.

“And you want to be a part of it again, don’t you? Ohh… Ohh… I’m so sorry—I feel the same! When the people you raised decide to make a tragedy out of your comedy…”

Comedy? I might never laugh again.

“You might never laugh again, it feels like,” the fairy continued, and Sonali was startled.  Was the fairy reading her mind? “Maybe I can help you! Outcasts have to stick together. What is your name?”

“Sonali!”

She gave her name without thinking, not remembering the ominous warnings of the fairytales she had read aloud so often, and there was another tinkling laugh – but this one filled with venom again, not honey. 

The worker realized that she had not only given her name, but handed over the key to unlock her entire being. She took a breath to protest the tricksy imp’s wickedness, but before she could so much as open her mouth, her body froze.

***

Rules had always been a part of her life. There were intricacies and customs to both of the cultures she was now familiar with. Whether it was her parents’ bungalow or an English residence, each set of humans valued certain things: timeliness, respect, and silence.

But the fey operated differently. They felt the same emotions that humans did: sadness and happiness. What they did to achieve their goals was a little more mischievous, if not always completely malicious. The fey thrived on trickery, tripping up the unsuspecting, teasing the unwitting into giving up one of their most precious possessions: their names.

To give the fey one’s name meant to give them control over one’s own body. It was a rule that the twins found imperative to impart upon her. They had been puzzled at first by her immediate comprehension, and she couldn’t bear to explain why. Jinn were similar. Adnan had warned her that they, too, could take a human form—projecting one and also puppeting one.

With no control over her body, she revisited the conversation for a clue.

A worker… Just like you…

You were kicked out!

When the people you raised decide to make a tragedy out of your comedy…

The fairy interrupted her thoughts, cackling and launching herself to the top of her charge’s hair, commanding two strings of hair as though they were the reins of a horse. The worker resisted, but it was no use.

“We’ll have to be very, very convincing,” mused the fairy. “They need to need you. So we’ll need to make a mess that you can clean! But I’m too small to make a mess. And besides… I don’t have permission to enter.”

Sonali had to admit—it felt good. To dirty up the pristine Hive, to subject the executives to janitorial work. The worker knocked over pillows from the couches. She tore some of them open, feathers flying everywhere. It was like a bird had lost its wings.

Then she darted towards the kitchen. Switched the labeled lids of the spice jars, opened cupboards and rearranged their contents. Concocting a mix of her own, silverware soup and disorderly dishes.

And the best part—at least, according to the fairy—was rearranging the supply closet. Broom pans were tucked into awkward corners, rags stuck to the very top of the shelves, liquid containers knocked over to the floor.

It was like scratching an insect bite. Pleasure at first, and then only more pain. What was she to do? She felt helpless under yet another’s control, restrained more than ever by invisible chains.

Any minute now, the queen would start marching down. The worker’s heart began pounding in her ears. It was the only part of her body that felt like it was her own. How could she be expected to stay? And even then, after the mess had been cleaned, would she be unscathed? She had faced the queen’s wrath before, but now the drone would have something to say to her as well.

Somehow, the queen and the drone continued to sleep through the noise. The worker wasn’t sure whether she should be grateful or afraid, try to resolve this, or succumb to the fey logic. They’d know she had been the perpetrator—no amount of pleading on her part would ever change that. She had already been relieved of her duties, but could there even be a worse fate than that? She wouldn’t put it past them. Her mind, still struggling with the overwhelming possibilities of what would happen next, sought to resist.

I am not your worker! she thought furiously in the fairy’s direction. 

The fairy’s voice replied to her. But I am your queen.

Hopeless. Sonali began silently reciting what few supplications of protection that she knew. Her mind filled with the prayers, and when she ran out of the ones she had memorized with her husband, she began with supplications of her own. It was a repetition of that morning, the same things she had asked for while sitting on her prayer mat. The word finally came to her, what she had intended to ask for all along: freedom.

“Sonali?”

The boys, still in their pajamas, were in the hallway. Their ayah’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her hands were frozen. One held a pot, with a pan in the other, threatening to strike.

“What are you doing?” William asked.

“She’s making a mess, obviously,” Jacob said. “She’s trying to stay.”

She tried to shake her head, but the fairy held her still. Instead, she darted her eyes to the top of her head. A silent cry for help.

William sniffed, looking around him. “She wouldn’t do this, though, Jacob.”

“No. No, she wouldn’t.”

“Are we in a dream?”

Jacob reached over to pinch his brother. “There’s your answer.”

“I’ll give you an answer!”

The boys grabbed at each other. Jacob shoved William’s shoulder, and William yanked at his hair. 

The fairy cackled. Catching sight of the little fey perched on Sonali’s head, the boys grinned mischievously. Sonali felt a grin of her own creep onto her face. They understood! Of course they would, how could she ever doubt them? It was their fitrah, their nature as children, to always believe in the innocence of others. To not subscribe to the prejudice that the adults had.

“Get her the honey, William!” 

“No, Jacob!” William took his brother by the hand and leapt in front of their ayah, remembering the lessons of their bedtime fairytales. “Say her name! We have to take her name back from the fairy! Show her that it doesn’t belong to only her—it’s ours too! Everyone who meets her, knows her, loves her!”

Jacob gasped and followed suit.

“Sonali!” they cried a second time, in unison, as though they were part of the same hivemind. She felt her limbs release. Just in time, she kept her grip steady on the handles of the pot and pan. She joined them for the third time, as all of them understood, now, that delightful things happened in threes.

“Sonali!”

“Aww.” The fairy emerged from the tresses of hair, as though she were a bride trying to get out of her wedding dress. Then she stamped her foot on Sonali’s head. “You stole it!”

“They can’t steal what isn’t theirs.” Sonali’s voice was raspy, but it belonged to her again. “And neither can you. My name is Sonali. I am no one’s worker now. I have no queen.”

“Can’t I stay longer?” the fairy begged. “Neither of us have a place to go. And you all still have a mess to clean. I can help!”

Jacob fervently shook his head. “She’s made of gold, not marigold. And she’s our family.”

“Not you!” William said.

The fairy pouted once more. With a sly look at the boys, Sonali captured her with the pot and pan. They darted to the back window and released her, as though she were nothing but a troublesome insect.

***

The fairy was right about one thing: there was still a horrid mess. The boys urged her to leave before their parents could see the mess, insisted that they would cover it up for her as a tantrum on their part. But Sonali knew better. They couldn’t reach the high shelves, nor did they know where everything went. And she would still be blamed for it, anyway. 

“I have nowhere to be, now,” she said, separating forks and knives.

“That’s not true!” William hushed her as he stuffed feathers back into pillows. “We found a place in the phonebook.”

Jacob’s face flushed, and he nearly knocked off one of the replaced pillowcases back on his brother. “It’s called Ayah’s Home.”

The name struck her immediately. What they told her seemed like just a fable. There were other Indian ayahs, like her, abandoned by their English employers. It was expected that the Home would be full towards the end of the summer, but come autumn, she might have employment with another family here, or on a return voyage back.

It still seemed too good to be true. As she continued to tidy, it almost felt like nothing had happened. There were hardly any traces of the fairy left. Maybe it had been a dream, as William supposed earlier.

“This feels like magic,” Jacob said in wonder. 

“Oh!” William tugged at her dress. “What’s ‘magic,’ Sonali?”

It took her a few seconds to understand—he wasn’t expecting a description, rather, a translation. “Jaadoo. But this, this is not magic. This is barakah.” They didn’t ask for an explanation, and she didn’t have the time to give one.

The two boys were just as cunning with the queen and drone as they were with the fairy. They told their parents that they had awoken early and sent their ayah away with instructions themselves. Technically, they had. A map. Directions. But also, the additional allowance their parents had given them for the train.

Sonali met them inside one of the train’s carriages, and they ran into her arms.  She wondered if she should tell them that she was considered their mother too, at least according to her tradition. But with the way they held her, perhaps, they already knew.

“We promise to write to you.” Jacob’s eyes welled with tears, while William already sniffed a leaking nose.

She smiled. “I can’t promise that.”

Jacob was shocked, but William laughed. “Because she can’t write yet!”

“Oh.” Relief washed over him. “Maybe someone else can! Just tell them what you want to say, and they’ll write it for you. Can you do that?”

“Insha’Allah, beta.”

Ayah’s Home wasn’t a Hive, but it felt like one at first. The structure was modest, not like the residence. It was brown, more like a tree, and occupied by far fewer people. However, it was the people that mattered: Muslims and Hindus both, from all over her country. They all welcomed her, sympathy in their eyes, understanding of the situation. Cooking the same foods and speaking the same language. Some were seasoned sailors, well experienced in the journey from England to India. Others were Madrassi ayahs, like their governess counterparts, as sophisticated as queens. All abandoned but found again, in a Home instead of a Hive.

“It’s the workers that make the decisions. They look around, all around, and choose a new home for themselves. Isn’t that amazing?”

***

We miss home. We miss India, Jacob wrote to her. We keep saying that we’re homesick, but Mother doesn’t believe us. Just like she didn’t believe us when she said we wanted to read stories.

William’s handwriting continued on the rest of the page. Sonali can imagine them bucking their shoulders together, vying for a place on the paper. Some words were recognizable, others were not. She tried to read the words as they were told to her.

Yes! She says that she was homesick in India, for England. But doesn’t she know that it can be the other way around? She doesn’t understand. But we think you do. It feels like seasickness, but different. Worse, even.

We feel as though our family has been torn apart. We miss our ayah and our mother. 

Do you miss us? How is the Home? You must not have too many lessons. But if you do, we hope that they are fun.

Sonali, there is another word we want to know. Joy. But not just the word. We want to know its definition. And how we can feel it again.

Sincerely, 

Jacob and William

 

The letter ended. Immediately, Sonali urged the other ayah to write on her behalf. She spoke to her in Urdu and prayed that the English would capture it all.

Dear Jacob and William,

I remember when you showed me the dictionary for the first time. The entries were like this: Joy, noun. And there were more words after. If I could be a dictionary, I would say this: “Joy, noun. Can be found, or made. But not defined.”

My parents taught me how to tend to a home, to find comfort in cooking and cleaning. My husband, may Allah have mercy on him, taught me to look after bees for happiness. And then I looked after you boys, made you smile. All these things, I did because I thought I had learned how to do them, and I knew nothing else. But I realized I continued to do them because I loved them. They all brought me joy.

To feel joy again, you must do what it is that you love. It may be that someone else introduces you to it, or that you find it on your own. But what matters is that you do it as often as you can. 

My advice: You both tell wonderful stories. I would love to read them. Not just on my own. But to the new children I will be taking care of this fall.

May you feel joy.

The other ayah paused in her transcription. She sniffed, looking at the paper for any mistakes. The bindi in the center of her forehead relaxed as the crease in her brows released. It reminded Sonali of her mother. Then, with a smile, the other ayah rotated the letter on the table and pushed it towards Sonali. She stared at it blankly.

“You want me to read it? I can’t—not much English.”

“No, beti, sign it. It’s your letter.”

Sonali swallowed. The last time she had signed something was in her marriage contract. It seemed as though it were another promising document, the beginning of a new chapter, a roadmap to newfound joy.

سونالي

Sonali

 

Related:

– Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

– Niqabi In A Chocolate Shop: A Niqab Story

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