Al-Mala’ika

At the age of seven, Hala lost her best friend. “We’re soulmates,” Reem said. “Because God tied our spirits together before we were born.” Reem was confident that they shared the angel that had breathed into their mothers, like how the angel Jibreel breathed into Mariam, the mother of the prophet Isa. They are connected forever within the foundations of their soul. In the distant future, Hala will envy the thoughts of children, which often produced the most profound worlds.

Hala sat at her best friend’s wake, surrounded by crying women. Wailing women. She was quiet. Her feet, wrapped in shiny black shoes, didn’t quite reach the floor. Reem’s aunt came around, passing out copies of the Qur’an to each mourner. These were paid for by Reem’s father, in hopes that those who read from them would pray in Reem’s name, so that her hasanat will be added upon while she rests before judgement day. Hala’s mother said that hasanat are good points that an angel on your shoulder keeps count of.

Her mother had told her that Reem was in an accident, but did not tell her more. Did not want those images in her daughter’s head. But Hala heard fleeting words floating around her in hushed whispers. “Poor girl, the hit must have made it a quick end.” “They found the car, it had been abandoned.” Hala began to imagine what Reem’s body might have looked like after the accident. But women do not look at the deceased body. The familial men have carried her casket to the graveyard. Women are not allowed into the cemetery.

There is no doubt that Reem will make it to janna, heaven. I can see her turn into a songbird and flying. I can also see her eating all the chocolate in the world, without ever getting sick. Hala knew that Reem would do this, because they had told each other what they would do in heaven after they died. Hala wanted to have a bouncy castle made of jelly. It would be green. She also wanted to have the same exact home she lived in now to be in heaven, so that she could be with her family, so that she could still be neighbors with Reem.

Hala looked up from her shoes and to the women in the room. Many of them were veiled, in long dark dresses. She couldn’t tell one from the other. Except for Reem’s mother, who had torn off her scarf and was now working on tearing off her hair. From the corner of her eye, Hala could see another woman walking into the room. Veiled. By her side was a girl who looked to be just as old as Hala.

The girl moved from one woman to another, kissing cheeks and repeating the same words her mother had told her to say to those who mourn. When she reached Hala, she sat beside her. “My name is Malak,” she whispered. Hala nodded, and they sat quietly for the remainder of the evening in the living room where she once spit Coca-Cola on the carpet and Reem took the blame. Lying was a sin, but are all lies bad? Hala grew anxious, thinking of Reem’s hasanat, in fear that by taking the blame, she might lose her place in heaven. She later asked her mother, whose eyes immediately drew tears. She planted kisses on Hala’s face, and reassured her that little girls always go to heaven. This placated Hala, until she remembered being told that children of Adam and Even cannot decide who goes to heaven or hell, but only God can. Did this mean her mother was in trouble for saying that Reem is in heaven? Hala prayed in her bed for forgiveness for them all that night.

When all had left the wake, Hala and her mother stood up to leave. Malak waved goodbye to Hala, and Hala waved back.

It was another month of scorching heat before school began. Third grade. The first day of class without Reem. Hala sat at the desk with her name taped onto it. Beside her was a girl who was scrawling intensely on a paper, her hair covering her face. When Hala’s chair scraped against the floor, the girl looked up. It was Malak. A large grin broke across her face. “Hello, Hala!” Malak giggled at her own words. Hala noticed that no name was taped onto Malak’s desk.

Malak began to follow Hala everywhere. Hala supposed they were friends now, which she did not particularly mind. Sometimes Malak irritated her, because she never played the games Hala enjoyed best. Cops and robbers, or tag. Malak would not let Hala brush her hair like the other girls do either. But they found other ways to play.

It was a semester later when Hala’s mother sat her down at home and asked, “Why aren’t you making any friends at school?” This puzzled Hala, because she had been with her newfound friend every day since classes began. “Don’t lie to me, your school called to ask if you are well, because you always sit alone.” That was when Hala became afraid. She told her mother about Malak, and her mother grew pale.

Hala watched her mother as she called the school and enquired about a “Malak.” She asked her daughter if she knew her last name, and Hala shook her head. Hala did not hear what was said from the other end of the phone call, but when her mother hung up, she held Hala’s arm firmly. “Don’t lie to your mother, are you making up this friend?” She watched her mother’s face begin to scrunch up and turn red, and then tears fell again. “It’s okay to make friends. Reem wouldn’t be mad at you.” Reem.

The name ricocheted off the back of Hala’s mind, and soon enough, she began to cry too. She embraced her mother, calling “Mama, mama,” before she fell into an exhausted sleep.

At school the next day, Hala marched with purpose. She walked into class, stepped up to Malak and commanded, “Why are you here if you’re not a student at my school? Why would you lie to me? I thought you were my friend.” Malak looked at her, quiet. She reached out her hand but withdrew it. They ignored each other for the rest of the day. After school, Hala was walking into the car park to meet her mother. She heard her name and turned around to see Malak running to her. Angry, Hala turned away from her and began to run out onto the street. Her ears were too full with the sound of her raging heart to hear the honk, honk hooooonk. When it was loud enough to hear, it was too late. She froze. Then, a hand pulled harshly at her collar, onto the pavement. Hala lay there, and saw a face shadowed by the sun. Two souls tied, too close. And it was gone. The wailing of a mother, her mother. “Hala!” She fell to her knees and embraced her daughter, then took her home.

Hala did not go to school the following day. Her mother was brushing back her hair when Hala asked, “Mama, how did you run to me so fast to save me?” Her mother’s brows came together, her hand stopped moving. “Albi, my heart, what do you mean?” She heard the sentence again, still fresh in her thoughts. Two souls tied, too close. Malak.

She ran to school the next morning to the unnamed desk. No one was there.

Hala’s mother taught her that every child of Adam has ten guardian
angels, al-mala’ika, who would protect their person from any harm and evil intentions. Hala asked her mother if two people could share guardian angels. Her mother smiled, “Maybe.” That night, she dreamt of holding Malak’s and Reem’s hands, lying down in a green jelly bouncy house.

Artwork courtesy of the author.