Amira’s Song

    Amira sang in her bedroom, standing at the edge of her rug. It became a stage where she could look out to an imaginary audience.

    “Your music is so loud!” said Jibril. He burst in, letting the door hit the wall. “I told you I was trying to study.”

    The stage and the sound of the applause vanished. Even the microphone in Amira’s hands turned instantly back into a hairbrush. Her face burned with embarrassment.

    “Can’t you knock?” Amira asked.

    “I can,” her brother said. “And I did. You didn’t hear me.” 

    “Sorry,” Amira said. She knew Jibril really did try to give her privacy. After all, it was his room too.

    Jibril got the books he needed. But before he left, he turned around. “You do have a great voice,” he told her. 

    Amira wasn’t sure which was worse: getting caught singing, or being told she was good at it. In a funny way, her brother’s compliment scared her. But it also made her heart thump with possibility. 

    I do want to be a singer, she told herself. Then she sat down on her bed, knowing it would never happen. Singers can’t be afraid to sing in front of real people—and Amira was.

    So Amira turned her attention to her school project, International Day. Each seventh-grader had to choose a country, provide information about it, and decorate a table. On the night of the big event, they would make a presentation to anyone who stopped by.  

    Amira thought back to when Mr. Veitro had assigned the project. Everybody had called out their country: China. India. Ireland. Some people wanted the country their families had come from. Others chose a country just because they liked the food or the soccer team. 

    “Amira, can I count on you for Syria?” Mr. Veitro asked. 

    Everyone knew that Amira and her family had emigrated from Damascus, in a country called Syria. That was six years ago. But Syria was so often in the news now because of the war there. People always asked Amira questions. 

    Was your house bombed? No. Did you see the war? A little. Can you speak Arabic? Sort of. Do you still have family there? Yes. 

    Some of Amira’s memories of her life in Syria were fading. She couldn’t remember much about her old room—except that it was bigger and she didn’t have to share it. But one memory still filled her heart: her grandmother’s love. Her grandmother was the first one to sing with Amira. When Amira sang with her grandmother, her voice felt strong. They would sing folk songs, pop songs, lullabies. 

    The night before she and her family left for the United States, Amira couldn’t sleep. Her grandmother sat by her bed. “Tayta, why can’t you come with us?” Amira had asked.

    “It’s not that I can’t,” her grandmother had told her. “But this is my home. If you don’t come back soon, I’ll come to you. Soon.” 

    They talked on the phone almost every month for a year. Amira always asked her grandmother the same question. When is soon? Then one day, the family got a heartbreaking call. Tayta had died. No one spoke. They were all thinking about how badly they wished she had come with them.

    “I picked Syria for my International Day project,” Amira told her family at dinner. 

    Her father nodded. Her mother smiled. “Do you need any help?” 

    In Damascus, they had been doctors. Here, Amira’s mother was a medical assistant and her father worked in a research lab. They both spent long hours at work. Asking her mother to help with a school project would be asking too much. 

    “No, I’m good,” Amira answered. 

    In class, Mr. Veitro gave them time to do research on the computer. Amira wrote down facts about Syria’s history and its many languages and religions. But there was a lot about the war, and some of that was too painful to read. 

    Mr. Veitro suggested that students make a special food from their country. So the day before the event, Amira cut up pita bread and made hummus. She roasted the chickpeas and the garlic. And as she mashed it all up, she sang to herself. It was a Syrian song her grandmother had taught her. 

    No one was home, and she sang it over and over. She sang really loud—until she could almost hear her grandmother’s voice joining in. 

    When she was done, Amira dipped her finger into the bowl of hummus. It tasted perfect.

    That night, Amira tried to convince her parents that they didn’t have to come to the school event. Her father just kissed the top of her head: “We’ll be there around 7:30.”

    Amira couldn’t believe what she saw when she walked into the gym. The entire floor was taken up with long tables. Each one was covered in fabric matching the colors of a country’s flag. 

    The India table was one of the most colorful. It looked like Divya’s entire family was there, all dressed in traditional Indian outfits. At the China table, there were spring rolls and intricate paper cut-outs. Canada had a big platter of pancakes and a huge jug of maple syrup. The Philippines table even had a roof of dried grass.

    Amira set down her plastic bowl of hummus and her paper plate of pita bread. She stood her poster board on the table and slumped down into her chair. She didn’t want her parents to see what a terrible job she had done. Why hadn’t she done more to honor Syria, her family, her grandmother’s memory?  

    “Don’t worry about it,” Jibril said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll go wait at the entrance for Mom and Dad.” Amira nodded.

    A few people admired her homemade hummus. They politely listened to her presentation. Then they quickly moved on to Ireland, where a family was giving away potato chips and shamrock stickers.

    Amira felt like crying. Instead, she closed her eyes and began to quietly hum the Syrian song her grandmother had taught her.

    Then, ever so softly, she began singing the words. It was so loud in the gym that she couldn’t even hear herself. She kept her eyes squeezed shut and imagined that she was in the kitchen with her grandmother. Amira’s full voice rose out of her chest. It was as if her grandmother was with her, singing each Arabic word. 

    When she finished, it was the silence that startled Amira. Then the clapping. Then the cheers.

    “Bravo, bravo! How beautiful!” 

    “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

    How long had they been listening? How long had she been singing?

    Mr. Veitro was wiping his eyes. “Amira, that was incredible. You captured the true meaning of this project with your voice.” 

    She didn’t have time to be embarrassed. Or afraid. She didn’t have time to do anything but smile. And there in the crowd were her mother and father and Jibril—their eyes shining with tears.