Writing
Endless Baptism,
For Palestine
Feminist Wire | May 15, 2012
My Aba’s Masjid
These days there are fish who swim in and out of my Aba’s masjid. The river runs slow and deep, and there are boats that run in the sky like air.
The ground where my ancestors’ foreheads touched in prayer has turned into the sound of water, the sound of air, has been absorbed by the silence of the fish, coated on the rocks at the bottom of the riverbed.
Where my mother came a shaking bride, the water anemones procreate endlessly. Where the women combed out their hair, there are strands of grasses and seaweed, rocks that lay and roll like boulders where my father played in the trees.
These days there are fish who swim in and out of my Aba’s masjid. The river runs slow and deep and all the bones of my ancestors have risen to the surface to knock and click like the sounds of trees in the air.
Among the Rockets
The New York Times Magazine | April 23, 2015
My mother and father lead the way, holding my little sisters in their arms. I run ahead, excited. It’s summer, and the streets of Corona swell with Muslims — men and young boys in new salwar kameez, sent special from family in Pakistan; women and girls, too, in reds, aquas and silvers, the kind usually found in the tails of mermaids and peacocks. We are headed early in the morning to Flushing Meadows-Corona Park, to celebrate Eid al-Fitr. For the month of Ramadan, we fasted from sunrise to sunset, spending our days in spiritual remembrance. Now we rejoice — eat sweets, give gifts and offer a communal prayer.
Two Truths and a Lie: Writing Autobiographical Fiction
Poets & Writers | August 26, 2013
The first question people always ask me about my novel Corona is if it’s true. Yes, like me the character is a Pakistani who grew up in Corona, Queens, worked as a Puritan in a living history museum, and hitchhiked up and down the East Coast in her twenties, but to say Razia’s life is my life is somehow still not true. Razia is Bushra 2.0: stronger, faster, smarter, quicker. She says all the things I wish I’d said. She doesn’t take as much bull crap. She’s me without the endless hours of agonizing, worrying, and being depressed. Also, most of the events in the book didn’t really happen.
Two Truths and a Lie: Writing Autobiographical Fiction Part II
Poets & Writers | September 2, 2013
A Book and a Baby
Poets & Writers | August 19, 2013
