Leaves

All around is desert land that extends beyond what the eyes can perceive. We’re in the UAE, there’s a lot of desert here, so this grand plot of sand should not come as a surprise to you or I or anyone else really. But two trees stand tall amidst this plot of sand and there are some men here who don’t know me or you or any of my people. Unknown men who decide that this is the right place to educate me and us all about life. They start with a single school. Slab on slab, one fancy English word after another, and then it stands tall and erect, a beige-colored, prison-like edifice ready to suck in mounds of children — ready to teach them what it means to exist and how to do it.

Another school is already in the works by the time the children at the first school are strong enough to stand on their own feet. And then a third school is built, a fourth, a fifth, until the entire plot of sand is just beige edifices with a big sign on each one of them that says “Ranked No. 1 School In Sharjah”.

I’m eighteen when I am finally able to step outside my school — Number Four is relatively old when compared to all the new, shinier buildings constantly under construction. The sun is brighter than I remember it being and there’s a big road extending from one end of the desert to the other that I don’t quite remember ever being built. I’m not shocked by the road though –– of course there are roads beyond what the eyes can perceive. We’re in the UAE, there are a lot of roads here, so this should not come as a surprise to you or I or anyone else really. 

Three stop signs stand at equal measure across this big road. There’s a roundabout. A U-turn. Dirty air. The same two trees. I hear the sounds of children within the gates of the schools, each of them slowly being prepared to learn about the world from people who do not know them, or me, or any of my people.

It feels strange to use my legs for the first time. There’s an ache in my muscles that doesn’t quite waver but I continue to stride forward nevertheless. The man standing near the gate gives me a gentle nod and allows me to move outside of it. When I do so, sand mixes with the white of my sneakers, and I do nothing but watch the movement of it all. Cars incessantly moving across the big expanse of the road, the whirring lights and sounds of the schools around me, the greyness of the sky. The two trees. 

The trees are striking in particular. The only tinge of color in an otherwise barren space. My legs lead me forward and I approach one of them. I reach out for a leaf and pull it off. The wind blows and I am reminded that this place was not built to love me. 

There’s a release to the pull –– so I reach up and pull another leaf out. And then another, and another. A leaf for every school built on our unwilling land. For every year and every way I had been taught who to be and how to live by people who do not know me or you or any of my people. I pull leaf after leaf until there are no more leaves left. I step back and look at the way the branches flow, the way the tree stands, and I think it looks better bare. We’re in a desert anyway, so this should not come as a surprise to you or I or anyone else really. 

I hold the leaves in my arms. I cradle them. Then, with my two palms, I carry them with me beyond where the eyes can perceive.

Fatima Al Jarman is a writer from the United Arab Emirates currently trying to live her best life. Her work can be found in Aurelia Magazine, The Tempest, Sekka Magazine, and more. She is also the founding editor-in-chief of Unootha, an online magazine dedicated to showcasing the creative work of Middle Eastern and North African women. On most days, you can find her fervently updating her notion page, planning her next zine workshop, or reading a newsletter.

Check out Unootha here

Artwork by Noor Al Thehli