Bin Laden's Woman by Gustavo Homsi Page A

dreamed of paying his debts and going back to
Damascus.
     
    Anyway, George’s mother was
right.
    He restarted almost from zero, living a much
simpler life than they lived before, in Damascus, but there was
hope again, they would be better one day.
    George was a good-natured guy, sometimes in
a slack manner, but, controlled by Samira’s hands, he could get
successful. He was friendly with customers, knew how to listen, was
kind.
     
    Samira also got her space. As soon as she
mastered the language, her neighbors found in her a strong woman,
fair and wise, they could always count on her.
    - Mrs. Samira! For the love of God, my son is
burning with fever.
    And she gave laxative to the child, teas,
supported the desolate mother.
     
    The catholic priest, from
Germany, enjoyed spending some time with George at the store in the
afternoon, chatting and drinking a small shot of cold cachaça , the Brazilian national drink, a spirit from sugar
cane.
    Finally he convinced George that God was
the same everywhere and taking the family to the church on Sundays
wouldn’t do any harm.
    Samira felt responsible about
that question. At the beginning she asked the patricians where they
could say
their prayers. She realized their almost broke situation wasn’t
exactly a passport to any community.
    In fact , she didn’t find an Arab community.
The majority of Arab immigration had happened a long time ago. The
patricians got married to Italians, to locals, mixing completely.
This country had received those people with an open heart, they had
become Brazilians. She agreed with her husband, the Naffahs would
seem less strange if they went to church.
    The whole family was wearing the best
clothes and went to the eight o’clock cult. When the ten o’clock
one – frequented by high society – finished, the "Star of the East"
was open and was ”The Point”. Many people stopped to have a guaraná , local kind of soda, or a snack. Some Catholics can’t eat
before cult, because of the Holy Communion, so they were
hungry.
     
    That year, the Samira’s stuffed
lamb got the highest price at the charity sale. An absolute success.
     
    The years passed by.
    To Sammy , even faster. That girl - skinny,
scared – grew up. She had long hair, silky, curly. Brown and
awesome. From afar, it looked tangled; closely it was bright,
fragrant and soft. Very soft. Her friends liked to tighten the
curls, carefully, slowly.
    The Naffah s bought the rented property,
built another floor, it was beautiful. There was a large terrace
overlooking the church square. Of course there are always ups and
downs, difficulties. Still, they progressed.
     
    Sammy was young, but embraced the
universal law of smart women, foolish choices, always picking the
wrong guy.
    She didn’t like watching her mother
worn out, working from sunrise to sunset. She admired and loved her
father more than anything in the world, thought he was polite,
elegant. Her mother was wise enough to not let herself down for
that, she went on, taking care of her daughter with love and
attention.

 
     
    The G irls
    Samira was already used to local habits, but
that couldn’t be applied to her daughters, that was another story!
There was no other way; they were under control all the
time.
    When they completed fifteen years old, the
city's social columnist looked for the Naffahs.
    - My dear, my debut party cannot
happen without your daughters. They are the most beautiful girls
in Tupã .
    - Really? What a marvel! - George
exclaims.
    Samira, who didn’t like the type very
much, adds diplomatically:
    - We admire your work, but I'm afraid that
is above our means. You understand, don’t you?
    - Absolutely, ma'am, but we don’t charge
anything for it, it's all for the party, their presence will be the
‘masterpiece’ at our ball!
    - See, Samira? – George gets
excited.
    Samira, who is not easy to be persuaded,
retorts.
    - I’m sure there will be expenses, what
would they be?
    - Just a little detail.