Desert Flower

By Adva Chattler

“Allah Ma’ik, Binti”, a woman  said as she turned for the door, exiting the flower shop.

Sam stood behind the counter, stunned. Did this woman just say what she thought she heard her say? Usually, the only times she heard “God” in a sentence was in a “God bless you”, and even then,  people shortened that most of the time. She never expected this woman— who just a moment ago spoke to her in perfect English without an accent— to now speak to her in perfect Arabic, in the dialect specific to her community. She had wished her a common farewell,  “May God be with you” in such a nonchalant way, it was as if she was shopping in the streets of a large Arab  city, not the Upper East Side of New York.

Still reeling from surprise, a flood of memories struck Sam like a tidal wave. Suddenly, she was back in a little two-bedroom apartment in  Be’er Sheva, back home in the Negev. Who lives in that apartment now? Do they, too, love the little balcony near the kitchen? Do they ever sit there and stare into the sky on a summer night, drinking bitter tea from the saucer and holding the sugar cubes in their mouth, sucking every grain of its sweetness?

Once she left Israel, she never went back. It had been more than 20 years since she closed the door of that one-bedroom apartment and took a one-way ticket to New York. A daring endeavor for a young woman of her background: from a conservative Iraqi Jewish family, unmarried, and barely knowing any English. Maybe it is better my grandmother passed before I left, Sam often thought to herself. Her sitti would have never approved of it— moving away from home, to America of all places. Only out of respect for her grandmother did Sam never say  goodbye to any of her old lady neighbors that knew her, never told them her plans. If she were to do something huge that those women would never approve of, at the very least, she wanted to protect her grandmother from being gossiped about after death. She owed her that much.

She landed in New York City wide-eyed and terrified. It wasn’t the first time she had felt this way. At only the age of twelve, Sam had boarded an airplane to Israel, and when she arrived, she shook with fear, barely knowing a word of Hebrew. Even a flight to New York from Israel in the late 70’s was nothing compared to that first airplane ride, during the year Jews made their massive exodus from Iraq. In the crowded freight airplane, sitting as close as she could to her grandmother, hugging her younger brother tightly like a child clutching  a teddy bear or doll.  

Her parents, who had died years earlier, left her with the responsibility to look after her  brother; even though her grandparents helped take care of them, they were becoming more aged and feeble by the day. Israel, of course, was not an easy place to live. In order to survive, she had to be quick on her feet— to her surprise, also quick with her tongue: she learned Hebrew faster than any other person in the Ma’abarah, the little tent village outside of Be’er Sheva, where they settled after a long and bouncy bus ride once they departed from the plane.

Soon enough, her Hebrew became as good as her Arabic. It didn’t take long, and she became her little tent village’s unofficial interpreter, helping the adults around when state clerks visited, giving directions, translating for doctors, enrolling other kids in schools, and so on. She was there to rush the doctor to the tent of Um-Nissim when she was ready to have her baby; she was there when men raged at state bureaucrats because there wasn’t enough food for everyone. 

So many years have passed since then, she thought, and so many years since she’s seen her brother. Wherever they write, he sends pictures of his little girls, and she keeps promising to come and visit one day, a promise she will never keep. 

 I can’t leave, she would say to herself whenever receiving a letter from her brother begging her to return, after all this time and all this hard work. She built herself a life;  she finally owned her own  business after years of selling flowers on the street corners outside of Broadway theaters and working in Mrs. Stern’s flower shop during the day. Almost every night she stood on the corner of West 53rd street, offering men red roses to purchase for their sweethearts.

She saved every dollar she could. The Sterns were a nice couple, older orthodox Jews  who took her in like their own. What could only have been planned from above, she met Mrs. Stern at the grocery store, near one of the produce carts. Sam can’t remember how they started talking; only that they did, and Mrs. Stern invited Sam for Shabbat dinner that Friday. One Friday turned into two, then three, then spending weekends at their house. When Sam’s landlord threatened to evict her for not paying rent on time, the Sterns kindly offered her to stay with them as long as she needed. 

She started working at their flower store during the weekdays, helping around the house in the afternoons, and at nights she was off to the Broadway shows, selling her roses. For the first time since she can remember, she had what felt like a fully functioning family. Some Shabbats, the Stern’s children and grandchildren would come and visit from New Jersey; before bedtime she sang them her childhood lullabies in Arabic, which they loved despite not understanding. She was happy that they didn’t ask for a translation; finally, for once in her life, words were just words, and didn’t need any explanation or interpretation.

When the Stern’s decided to begin a life in Israel, they begged her to come with them. Of course, she refused. True, she had her brother to go back to, but that was it. Her grandparents were long gone, her parents long dead: the Stern’s house felt more like a home to her than anywhere in the world. Even her little house back in Iraq felt like a daydream, a distant memory from a previous life she once had.

So, she stayed in New York. The Sterns left and gifted her their little flower store to run herself. Finally, like a desert flower waiting for the first rain, she felt like she finally bloomed: she loved to create freshness and beauty and color to make people happy during their times of joy, comfort in times of sorrow. She loved to see people smile when they saw her flower arrangements. She truly believed that she was  fulfilling her destiny; after all, her grandmother always reminded her, the name Sam was born with meant ‘happiness’.

Sam was not in fact the name she was given at birth, but  a name that she had chosen for herself shortly after moving to New York; it was much easier to pronounce than Simha. She liked “Sam”: she grew into it, although she knew her grandmother would hate it. No doubt, her sitti would have spoken her mind even if she wasn’t asked to, always adding a little tale to prove her point. 

Sam could only imagine how her grandmother became so tough: it was the desert’s scorching heat; the death of her grandmother’s son and daughter-in-law, having to bring up their children; the riots and massacres; having to flee her home, beginning a new life in Israel at the ripe age of 66. She was fearless, and sometimes terrifying. Sometimes, Sam vividly dreamt of when her grandmother chose a chicken for slaughter at the Shuchet – commanding its death, plucking its feathers and pulling out its internal organs, getting it ready for Shabbat dinner. 

Yes, Sam thought, she was thankful that she had the chance  to work with  a more delicate side of life. With every flower she wove into a bouquet, she strayed farther from the thought of who she might have become if she never left. She was convinced that she would’ve ended up like the other women she knew from the Shikkun Olim, spending their days in the harsh neighborhoods for the new immigrants, trying to make ends meet, beaten down from their daily struggles to survive.

It was close to closing time, Sam realized as a glance at her watch pulled her away from her memories.  She sighed and began to tidy up, pausing by the large door of her store, blankly staring outside, falling into her thoughts once more. She was again there, in that two-bedroom apartment; she’s eighteen again, on that chilly spring morning, a day she will never forget. She just finished cleaning her tiny kitchen from breakfast and tea with her grandmother, who was still seated at her chair by the balcony, gazing out at the morning traffic from the open wooden doors. Her grandmother was awfully quiet that morning, unusual, Simcha thought. She leaned over, her arm around her grandma’s shoulders, kissing her forehead then saying: “I’m leaving, Sitti, have a good day. I’ll be back after school is over. Do you need me to get anything on the way back?”

“La.” Her grandma said, softly. Raising her head to look at Simcha, their eyes meet. Simcha was waiting for something more, but her grandma’s eyes silently remained on hers. Her gaze was soft, warm. She never looked at her this way before: as if she knew it would be the last time she would ever look at her, before passing a few hours later while taking her late morning nap.

“Allah Ma’ik, Binti” She said to Simcha, “Allah Ma’ik”.

Adva Chattler is a Mizrahi Israeli, born and raised in Be’er-Sheva, Israel. She loves to create meaningful experiences using her culinary skills that prompt sharing stories, teachings and rituals about Judaism, Israel and Mizrahi Jewish cultures and heritage. Her rituals, prayers and poems were published on Ritualwell. Adva lives in Del-Rio, Texas, with her spouse, children and dogs.