1. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑰 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒃𝒐𝒓?

It felt like I was caught in a never-ending game of tug of war, yanked between two strong, clashing emotions.

On one side, there was this undeniable feeling of pride for standing my ground. But on the other side, a wave of regret creeps in, knowing I'd let my emotions get the better of me, once again.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I could've handled it differently, maybe even taken the high road and acted more maturely for once. But I didn't. I acted how I did, and now I'm left to face the fallout—an uncomfortable reality I can't escape.

If only this situation could have been quietly swept under the rug, just this once.

Following everything that went down, my mother called a family meeting. To be fair, it was far from a complete gathering, as not everyone was present but that's neither here nor there. This brings us to the current moment, on a cool Saturday night, the last day of June.

The heavy silence in our modest living room was so palpable you could hear a pin drop. I found myself seated on the carpeted floor, cross-legged, scrutinizing my faded henna-adorned hands. The detailed design, now barely visible, looked more like a skin condition. Among the many stages of the henna process, anyone who has ever had it done would agree that the worst is when it has faded but still lingers on your skin.

I should probably get it redone, I've ignored it for far too long now.

My mother's sharp voice, calling my name, broke the tense silence, pulling me from my thoughts.

And so it begins, once more.

My dear mother possesses many many qualities, but there's one particular trait of hers that stands out – her ability to stare you down when she's upset. I often joke that someone should enroll her in a staring contest because she would win. She stares at you for what feels like hours, and if you tried to outstare her, you'll quickly realise it's a futile attempt. I speak from experience, having attempted this many times.

Once she's happy with the time you've spent under her intense scrutiny, the scolding quickly follows. To avoid this stare-off is why I shifted my focus to my henna-stained hands, which I had done roughly two months ago by a local neighbourhood auntie.

"Yes?" I replied with a smirk, glancing through the small opening in my niqab. In case you're not familiar, a niqab is just a piece of cloth with strings on the sides that you tie to keep it in place.

In essence, it's a garment worn by Muslim women, particularly hijabis, that conceals most of the face, revealing only a small portion which showcases my kohl-outlined hazel eyes. Yes, I wear both the hijab and Niqab by choice, and no, it's not a result of oppression.

"What kind of faces are you hiding under there? Lift the veil; I want to see your face as I address you, Halimah," my mother said impatiently , while my father struggled to stifle his laughter from his seat beside her. She knows me so well. Whether that's a positive or negative trait, I'm currently leaning towards the latter. Come to think of it, it is a disadvantage, as I'm known for being unable to hide my facial expressions—at least that's what my cousin told me.

"Alright, ma," I sighed softly, lifting my black Niqab to rest it on my head, offering her my best attempt at an innocent expression.

"What's this I hear from our neighbor?"

"I don't know which neighbor you're referring to, to be fair, and what you heard, so how am I..." I rambled on, only to cut myself short when I felt her glare intensify. Her laser-like eyes could vanquish anyone in their path, and I knew I was in for a talk, whether I liked it or not.

"Now halimah, surely you know you shouldn't have done what you did" My father, the soft-spoken goofball that he is, attempted to maintain a facade of seriousness. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and I definitely inherited my lightheartedness from him.

My dad's laid-back demeanor always brought laughter to our home, even allowing my brother and me to escape punishments from our mother, something he does till this day.

"Yes, Baba," I replied with a hint of amusement in my tone.

"Even if it was funny..." He began to voice his opinion before my mother nudged him, steering the conversation back to its serious course. "It was still not necessary and—"

"You know we're already on rocky terms with the females of the Musa household after the toilet paper incident , and now you go and do this!" My mom interrupts, a familiar pattern in the family dynamic. Typical Ma.

"Ma, she was badmouthing Baba, and I'm not going to let anyone speak bad about my father," I responded , my voice level, avoiding raising my voice at her, which would only lead to a backhanded slap or a slipper thrown at me, she was quick with it.

"You could have talked to me about it so I could have spoken to her mother!" My mom suggested, as if it would have made any difference. She knew this wasn't our first rodeo with these issues, but she held onto the slim hope that a motherly conversation could change the course of my sour relationship with some of the people next door.

"Well, yes, but that would have taken too long," I retorted, not without some bite.

"So you don't regret what you did?" She nearly shouted, assaulting my eardrums in the process. I contemplated nodding, but my father's discreet headshake and mouthing of "apologize" stopped me.

"Okay, I admit I could have handled this more maturely, but I didn't think it through; I acted on impulse. I'm sorry," I mumbled, a touch of exasperation in my voice, but my admission had been made.

"Good, tomorrow I'll accompany you to their house, and you're going to apologize to them, understood?" My mother's words hung in the air, leaving me dumbfounded.

"But, Mom..." I began to protest but was promptly cut off. "And you're going to give them money to fix the damages, understood?"

Huh?

I looked like a fish out of water with the way I was opening and closing my mouth. I knew arguing with my mother was useless. If she had to, she'd drag me there herself. Testing her patience tonight was not on my agenda. After all, a happy mom was a peaceful household.

With a sigh of defeat, I replied, "Yes."

"I'll prepare dinner while your father offers you some more words of wisdom," she said as she rose and retreated into the kitchen, leaving my Baba and me in the living room, but not without a pointed look directed at him.

My Baba and I exchanged glances and burst into quiet laughter. Once our laughter had died down, he shifted his wheelchair slightly, which was parked beside his seat, and asked in a curious tone, "Did you really have to go to that extreme?"

"Of course not. I didn't actually plan to pour all that blue paint on her, but my hand slipped," I replied with a smirk.

He leaned over and affectionately patted my cheek, chuckling, "My little rebel. Please don't do that again; there are better ways to handle things, hmm?"

I beamed at him and nodded. If it isn't already obvious , I'm a daddy's girl through and through. I've always been, and I always will be. Don't get me wrong, I love my mom dearly and appreciate everything she's done for me and continues to do. However, my Baba and I share a special bond. Playfully, my mother has mentioned on more than one occasion that she became second in line the moment I was born because I allegedly stole my father's heart the moment he held me in the hospital. Her words, not mine. I truly can't imagine our home without my father's calming presence. He feels like home. He is home.

Shortly after, dinner was prepared and laid on the table, with my brother's help. We shared a meal, and afterward, we congregated for the night prayer, marking the end of the five daily prayers required of every Muslim.

I honestly wished we hadn't rushed through dinner, despite my hunger. The reason being that after our prayer, it wasn't quite late.

Therefore , my dear mother had the not-so-brilliant idea to pay a visit to our neighbors. I couldn't convince her to postpone it until the following day, as she had previously suggested. So, I reluctantly started preparing to head next door.

Let me be honest ; I had initially intended to purchase a larger can of paint, but the local store had run out, and my laziness prevented me from going to the more distant store. No one speaks ill of my Baba, and that girl should have known better. If she didn't before, she certainly does now. She practically begged for a reaction, and in my opinion, she received what she deserved.

Ever since the Musas moved in next door, she had persistently taunted and ridiculed me for my style of dressing. I'm well aware that my way of dressing is unconventional, particularly in a country like America, but diversity is what makes the world interesting. She needs to educate herself and shed her ignorance. While her constant jabs were irritating, I had brushed them off. However, crossing the line by discussing my father's condition was a step too far.

Three years ago, my father experienced a life-altering car accident. He was on his way home from work when he collided with a drunk driver. When I received that phone call, my heart felt like it was shattering. It wasn't a fatal accident, Alhamdulillah, but the impact of the crash severely damaged his spine, resulting in him losing all sensation from the waist down for an extended period. Though it was a challenging year and a half of recovery, he never allowed me to see him disheartened, and for that, I'm grateful to Allah. I can't imagine where I'd be without his cheerful spirit.

We stood by his side and supported him through his physiotherapy, and fortunately, he has started regaining some feeling in his legs. While he can't walk properly yet, he can stand and move his legs now, and we hope for more progress, Insha'Allah. During his recovery, I was worried that he might never be the same, but he quickly reverted to being my beloved Baba, the heart of our family.

So when that girl spoke ill of my father, it triggered something within me, and I couldn't control my anger. I honestly don't regret what I did whatsoever.

-

I often think about the purpose of door knockers, failing to understand their use. Why go through the trouble of a knocker when a simple fist would do, and perhaps even be more effective? Not to mention the germs that made me cringe at the very thought.

"Behave," my mother whispered, her voice a sharp reprimand, as she raised the brass knocker and rapped it twice. Internally, I rolled my eyes.

Finally, after a few minutes, the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Colsey. She wore a loose beige dress, her initial expression grim, which quickly turned into a scowl as her gaze settled on me. Clearly, someone was thrilled to see me.

"How have you been, Sarah?" my mother inquired, adopting a falsely cheerful tone as she took a step forward.

"I've been better, Shumaya," Sarah replied with her signature air of snobbery. She briefly glanced in my direction and then turned her attention to their porch, which still bore the remnants of blue paint splatters.

Though most of it had been removed, I could still see it. This was the site of the incident, the crime scene as I like to call it . I had gotten the paint, and just a few hours later, an opportunity had presented itself.

Her parents left about an hour ago—I know because I'm sitting on my window seat, watching them drive away. As I sit there, I notice her on the porch, phone pressed to her ear, having an obnoxiously loud conversation. She's talking so loudly that I can't help but hear bits and pieces, even though I'm not trying to listen.

Hoping she'll stay there for a while, I decide to make my move. I try to move like a ninja—or at least I think I do—as I carefully sneak downstairs, my heart racing. I slip through the back door, doing my best to stay quiet.

My parents were in the living room, engrossed in their television show, and I made sure not to make a sound. God forbid they found me sneaking out of the house at night.

Clutching the paint tin tightly in my hands, I move cautiously around the house, making my way toward the gates of the Musa household. Thankfully, she has her back turned to me, allowing me to slip past undetected, reaching the side of the porch. I position myself there, patiently waiting for her to turn around.

As she eventually spun around, a look of shock crossed her face. She slowly lowered her phone as she recognized me.

"What do you want, ninja?" She inquired, indifferent as she examined her nails. "Still upset over what I said about your Baba?" She sneered.

"Nope, just making sure you don't repeat it," I respond, revealing the paint and flinging it at her with all my might.

Her perplexed expression swiftly transformed into a mix of shock and anger as the paint splattered all over her dyed blond hair and started dripping everywhere else. I even got some splattered on my dress. Nevertheless, I did it for a good cause, so the mess doesn't bother me.

I saw as she began to open her mouth to shout, prompting me to swiftly retrieve my phone and take multiple pictures.

"What are you doing?" She snarled, desperately tried to remove the paint that stubbornly clung to her, failing at that as it still continued to spread.

"Oh, nothing. Just souvenirs, and oh, also, if you try to touch me with that paint, I will post all of this on social media."

With a sense of triumph, I watched as she slipped off her paint-covered slippers and angrily stomped her way into the house, leaving a trail of paint droplets in her wake.

You see, we had an unspoken agreement due to the frequency of our pranks. Whenever one of us pulled a prank on the other, the affected person couldn't shout or create a scene to draw attention. I even took it quietly when she once used a hosepipe on me as I was leaving the house one evening to visit a friend. It's not as if my pranks were any less extreme; they only became that way because she pushed things too far.

"I'm truly sorry to hear that, and I won't take up more of your time, but my daughter, Halimah, has something to say," she said, gently nudging me forward.

I cleared my throat, making an effort not to roll my eyes.

"I apologize for the damage to your house, which was primarily your daughter's fault, but I shouldn't have acted that way regardless," I monotoned, delivering my words in one breath and forcing a strained smile she definitely couldn't see.

Mrs. Colsey seemed irritated and appeared ready to respond when she changed her mind, offering an equally, if not more, fake smile.

"Shall we consider you forgiven, Hali?" She asked, still saying my name wrong, despite our years of being neighbors.

"It's Halimah, Mrs. Colsey," I replied through gritted teeth.

"Yes, whatever," she responded dismissively.

My mother likely sensed my growing irritation, prompting her to interject before I could respond.

"We should get going, Sarah. We just wanted to apologize and offer some money to cover the damages," she explained.

"Oh?" Mrs. Colsey inquired, raising an eyebrow upon hearing the word 'money'.

"Yes," my mom replied, turning to me and fixing a pointed look. "Halimah?"

Reluctantly, I extended my hand, clutching the money my Baba had given me, toward the, well, less than gracious Mrs. Colsey.

Now, I can't say if it was the condescending manner in which she reached for the money, but the moment she grasped the other end, my hand tightened on my end. What was my goal with this? I'm not sure, but there was some satisfaction in watching her struggle to take it from me.

"Halimah!" my Ma hissed harshly in my ear, delivering an unnecessarily forceful pinch to my upper arm. I promptly released my grip and began massaging the spot where I'd been pinched.

"Maaaa," I whined with a pout, tending to my tender, abused skin.

"We should be on our way now," she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me along with her.

Mrs. Colsey waved goodbye with a dismissive air, closing her front door after giving me a final glare, met with a cheerful smile in response.

I'm definitely not in her good books. But could anyone blame her, considering our history of run-ins? To be fair, her daughter was usually the instigator, yet she often overreacted when I retaliated. I'll admit that my responses sometimes went too far, but she never seemed to learn. Well, I will be a helpful neighbor, making sure she remembered every time she forgot.

That's just what good neighbors do, after all.

~

First chapter posted! Tell me what you think! I'm gonna post this chapter and see how it goes before I post the other chapters that are already written.🩷

#FreePalestine🇵🇸