Love from A to Z

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I wilted in the chair beside Mom. She glanced at me, worry flitting her own eyes, so I shot her a pained look: Say something. Okay, I said, smiling my smile of deadly politeness. I’d recently learned that smiling calm-evilly in the face of haters, well, stranger haters, gets them more inflamed. Summary and Prescription: I enjoyed this book and I loved the messages it try to send! I was not blown away by the writing style but it was not bad at all at the same time. I think it succeeded in creating an accurate representation of Islam in the modern time although it turned a little bit sappy at the end. I recommend this for anyone looking for a great Islam rep! Reading this book, a few things came home to me—things I had always known but that had to been buried under the days of my life. It was as if a clawed hand had sunk its talons into my mind, cutting through memories, letting emotion bleed. One memory, in particular, suddenly afflicted me afresh as poignantly as if it happened minutes before. What I love so much about this book is how hopeful it is. Zayneb and Adam are both battling adverse circumstances throughout the book–Adam with his MS and Zayneb with the cause and effect of the the blatant racism she’s had to put up with at home and even in Doha. These circumstances often throw them off balance, and it is only by connecting with the other person that they begin to get a different perspective and also grow stronger. Adam learns that the prognosis of his MS doesn’t have to be as bleak as he once thought, and Zayneb learns that she doesn’t have to be ashamed of her anger and passion to fight injustice and racism.

They were all Muslim? said Noemi, a girl with long blond bangs covering her eyes. She was staring at Fencer with an expression at the intersection of Practiced Boredom and Mild Curiosity, Freshly Piqued. Is that what you’re saying? I'm so so mixed on this one. To the point that I didn't even want to leave a review because I just don't know how to put my thoughts together about why this didn't work. But lets give it a go. This book was refreshing because of the adults in Adam and Zayneb’s lives–the ones who were supportive. I can count on one hand the number of YA books that contained supportive, well-written adults. This isn’t a critique; it’s just that most YA books are focused on the teens the stories are about rather than the adults that are around them. So I was pleasantly surprised to encounter a book with adults that felt authentic. I loved reading about Zayneb’s Aunt Nandy and her life. I wanted to read more about this woman who taught at an International School in Qatar. Adam’s father was also supportive and a wonderful character to read, despite his grief during the anniversary of his wife’s death.An oddity: whatever gives you pause. Like the fact that there are hateful people in the world. Like Zayneb’s teacher, who won’t stop reminding the class how “bad” Muslims are. Adam and Zayneb meet in the airport on the way to Doha, where Adam notices that they have the same type of journal, in which they record marvels and oddities. It seems fate is pushing them together when they find themselves intertwined in each other's lives. No, there’s the other kind too, and it’s a more prevalent kind: the slow, steady barrage of tiny acts of prejudice, these your-people-are-trash lightsaber cuts that tear and peel strips off your soul until you can’t feel your numbed heart any longer. Mom looked at flight options, and you could leave tomorrow afternoon if we drive you to Chicago. Auntie Natasha said instead of moping here, you should spend the next week with her, before Mom joins you guys. This memory remained a thorn in my side, buried too deep to dig out. My decision to take off my hijab, I had come to realize years later, is in a large part because of what happened that day. When I took off my hijab at 17, I didn’t look closely at why I did it. The whole thing was a non-event: I remember walking into the kitchen and casually announcing my decision to my mom. I remember her laughing and teasing me about it (“well, I didn’t tell you to put it on in the first place, now did I!”). My mom is a hijabi; she told me an anecdote about how she started wearing a hijab at the age of 25, a few months after marrying my dad, and how some people thought my dad might have had something to do with it. My mom grinned at me and said, “your dad had nothing to do with it. I just wanted to—so I did it.”

Clears throat* When I heard that a book like this was going to exists I was ecstatic. S.K. Ali wrote a book that made me feel seen. Books featuring Muslim characters are quite rare. I've made it my goal to read as many books centering around Muslims as possible this year. This book right here is what every Muslim reader should get their hands on. The struggles that Muslim's go through is depicted so so well. Especially, for girls who wear the Hijab (headscarf). Mom and Dad looked at each other and exchanged weird expressions, in between amusement and disbelief. Then Mom spoke. The only flight you can take has a layover in London. I’m a bit worried about that. And was there something that these countries had in common? Come on, people. Someone other than Mike?

This book talks about things that the nowadays society struggles with - big topics like racism and Islamophobia. I tilted my head and blinked at her sweater-set self. “Okay.” “Shit. Bitch.” She pretended it was because she couldn’t find her seat-belt slot. “Okay,” I said again, popping headphones on and scrolling on my phone to find the right selection. I turned up the volume and drew the left earphone away from my ear a bit as if adjusting it. A bit of Arabic, a traveling dua, filled the space between Hateful Woman and me. She stared. I smiled. • • • *I know, I know. I hate hateful people was so ironic. But I was born this way. Angry. When my siblings and I were young, my parents had this thing where they liked to sum each of us three kids up by the way we had entered the world. “Sadia had an actual smile on her face. Such a happy baby! Mansoor was calm, serene. And our youngest, Zayneb? She screamed nonstop for hours. A ball of anger!” Dad/Mom would say, laughing when they got to the punch line: me. When I was way younger, I’d get angry at this, their one-dimensional descriptions of us, their reducing us to these simple caricatures, their using me as a punch line. My face would redden, and I’d leave the room, puffing. They’d follow, trying to douse me with excuses for their thoughtlessness. After a while they learned to follow up the punch line with descriptions of my positive qualities. “But Zayneb is the most generous of our kids! Did you know she’s been sponsoring an orphan abroad with her allowance since she was six? He’s two years older than her, and she’s been taking care of him!” They’d beam at preteen me, at my newly developed guarded expression. Then, two years ago, when Mom and Dad had stopped this rudeness, I began not to care that they’d called me an angry baby. Because by then I’d discovered this about myself: I get angry for the right reasons. So I embraced my anger. I was the angry one.

Also, air holds the cellular signals that will allow further communication between Kavi, Ayaan, and me. So that we can plot Mr. Fencer’s takedown.) إن شاء الله adam and his caring, sweet personality. this boy is so soft, his whole being is just caring about his little sister and worrying about his father, my smol son.Yesterday I took the thin pieces of grooved balsa wood and fit them together in a grid pattern inside the box I’d already made. As the square compartments revealed themselves, smooth and flush without any screws or nails, I thought about touch.