Ababeel

I was here in the spirit when prayers ignited hope and optimism within me that my sister was performing Hajj, not mockery. I’d asked her to pray for my family. To pray for the impossible, to pray to fix a difficult relationship, at breaking point. She called me from Mecca to say that she prayed as promised in front of the Holy Ka’bah at two am—this promised task, yet to be accomplished.

At this point, I believed nothing else could mend us, except perhaps intense prayers chanting in unison with the ababeels, alongside hundreds and thousands of diverse peoples—synergy of faith and devotion propelling transformation. In essence, a Jewish guitarist playing Arabic music with Flamenco, fused to create transcendental music akin to Sufiism, dancing to care for emotional needs. I was here, in Spain years ago.

Time was of the essence. At two am, the ababeel birds were out and about flying high and low in the pale morning sky over and around the black cubic structure of the Ka’bah. When all other birds slept, they kept a vigil to protect the Ka’bah from an unseen enemy—hundreds of years of tradition that the Meccans believed in.

I heard the fire alarm go off. Our building on fire, I crushed my cigarette butt into a nearby ashtray, and I rushed out into the crowded passage with other residents scurrying down the narrow staircase. I looked over my shoulder for my daughter. But I couldn’t see her. She was asleep in her room; she had a rough night at the nightclub where she worked. She was caught up in a gangster brawl at the bar.

She had returned with a bruise early that evening, then went straight to bed. I was sitting in front of the television, watching my favourite night show, mocking at a character, smoking a cigarette, when she barged in through the front door. I didn’t care enough to check if she required medical attention. I saw her vaguely, entering almost ghost-like, then disappearing into her room. I noted a bloody nose and wanted to know how she got it. Her answer was brief, “brawl.” I said, “aha” and that was all.

Seriously, I wondered if she even heard the alarm. I regretted not waking her up. Downstairs, I searched for her amongst the motley crowd of panting residents jostling in the garden in their sleepers and shorts. She was not there. She would blame me for not waking her up. I hoped I was awake enough. The flame was rising high, blackening the heavens above.

There had been a steady falling out between us because of the pains she had received growing up from an abusive father. Because she said, I hadn’t protected her enough from him. “You did bloody nothing to save me from his scourge, when he was hitting me, yelling, and punching a dent into the furniture. You were too busy saving your marriage,” she had screamed one day, “you could’ve left him, but you didn’t.” “Really?” I said, “all these you have now, what you’ve become today, this person that you’re today, you owe it to me, no? I fed you, sent you to the best schools, gave you protection from street life—sexual predators, pedophile foster homes, God knows what else? The unknown dangers of the world out there would have hurt us even more; who knows what could have happened, who knows? Wasn’t it enough that your father gave you a safe roof over your head?” she yelled back, “So what if he didn’t molest me; I didn’t feel safe with a violent father, any life would have been better than this!” she’d screamed. “Outside world would have been far better than this! I don’t know how to move on with you.”

I couldn’t believe that she saw me as a complicit when I thought my decision at the time was in her best interest. Only I knew how afraid I was of the other world, alone with a child. My courage had failed me. It had tormented me sometimes, and I had even cried in silence, but I returned to him every single time.

Fire raged in one of the apartment windows while firefighters struggled to put it out. But it couldn’t be put out anytime soon. One part of the building had burned, and my daughter was still missing. I couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. I tried to get back into the building when no one was looking. I stood in front of the fire, attempting to walk through it. I coughed and felt hot and clammy. I saw a white light beckoning.

I opened my eyes in the hospital bed, my daughter sitting next to me. She looked at me and smiled. I had a second-degree burn on my skin with considerable pain, blisters, and swelling; my skin, potentially scarred. “What happened?” I asked. She said, “One of the firefighters spotted and rescued you from the bottom of the stairs. What were you doing there? Were you sleepwalking?” she asked. “I was looking for you,” I said. “Seriously?” she said, “I will talk soon. This isn’t over yet. Get some sleep if you can. I’ll go out and get myself a coffee. By the way, I had come downstairs pretty much behind you on the stairs; you just didn’t notice.” Downstairs from where I stood behind the old oak, I had a much better view of the fire. “But I looked for you, everywhere,” I said. “Of course, you did. How could you have seen me where I was standing?” she said.

My sister sat in front of the Ka’bah praying. She had all the faith in the world that her prayers would heal us, mysterious as they were, the ababeel had saved the city by dropping pebbles over the enemy, and decimating them some thousands of years back—a Quranic story. My burns were slow to heal, but with some serious scars, I healed, and I returned home.

One cheery morning, the winds, were wild, brushing the dry leaves off the garden path into a nearby gutter. I hopped on a train and decided to go into the city. I took the window seat. Gazing outside, I saw a man looking straight at me as though he was conveying a message. I raised my hand to ask what was up. In an instant, the stranger disappeared, went straight off the radar as the train also geared up.

Our relationship was a big deal for me; I only thought of my daughter these days. Since the fire, our relationship has improved in bits and pieces. She couldn’t move on. Penance, Atonement, Sufferings, huge emotions, big words were there for a reason, no? It was to show people the rights from the wrongs—mercy, humility, and kindness—the gamut, to elevate the grieving souls to a higher dimension.

My station arrived, and as I was getting off, I heard a ping—my daughter messaging me, “Are you free? Can we have coffee?” “Why of course, I was free, and I could have coffee with you anytime.” She messaged the cafe’s address and asked her to join her in an hour. I hopped on another train again, going in the opposite direction.

When the train reached the destination, I saw her standing there on the platform. We waved. She looked morose. As soon as I got off, she came around and kissed me on the cheek, which was rare. Anyway, we walked abreast towards the cafe and found a table. I ordered my usual, cappuccino, and she hers, latte. Coffee revved up our minds. She talked incessantly about the brother of a friend of hers who took his life because he was in a domestic violence situation. Father was having an affair, and the brother went into deep depression. As upsetting as it was, I offered my deepest condolence and regrets for a young man who must have fought with the ghosts of his head in silence, in darkness which never left his side—the mindless ghosts of the mind, had not disappeared because his anxieties were never addressed; until he put an end to it himself.

I blinked, and my blindside wore off. It was as though light was shed on a new way opening up before me. I realized that my daughter needed me most at an hour like this. What could be more fortuitous for me?  Whether or not my relationship improved with her was a different matter, which I left to time and divinity. A seed of love had been planted in her heart that very moment—a growing need for me which brought us together, today, was of consequence. Then she said something astounding. “I realize you were a victim of a broken system. Police didn’t do much in those days. I’m sorry, Mum, for coming down so hard on you.”

Indeed, tears welled up in my eyes, too. I sighed. I dared not think that this was a trade-off for someone else’s loss. I resisted the temptation—what was good, or bad, only God knew better. However, I was ready to wait it out—an entire lifetime to forge reconciliation—one, two, or three years—the restive ababeels flew non-stop for ten long months before they sat down to rest.