after his people had also meant looking after Rasha, an exceptionally beautiful Al-Zafir woman whose fiancé had died in a riding accident, leaving her pregnant but unmarried. The protective Akbar had taken it upon himself to take care of Rasha by asking her to be his second wife. Sarah couldn’t stand quietly by and let another woman share her husband’s bed. However, she couldn’t bring herself to tell her son all of this. How can you explain such things to a nine-year-old boy?
“Come on. Let’s put our pizzas in the oven. And Ali, please, no more fighting.”
Sarah would have to call the school the next day to make another appointment with his teacher, Miss Baker, but she didn’t really hold out much hope that Ali’s teacher would be able to put an end to her child being bullied. As nice as she was, Miss Baker had little to suggest except trying to avoid the boys and ignore the name-calling. The only other solution was to change schools. However, that would mean moving to a new house, so that they would be in a different school district, but that wasn’t possible as the houses in the better locations also came with higher price tags. Sarah could barely afford to pay the mortgage on their tiny two-bedroom terrace house where they were, much less anything more expensive. Somehow, she and Ali would just have to find a way to sort things out.
******
Fifteen minutes later, the two pizzas were ready, but just as Sarah was taking them out of the oven, the doorbell rang.
“Ali, could you go and see who’s at the door?” Sarah asked. “Why do people always have to ring the doorbell just as we’re about to eat?” Sarah said more to herself than her son as she took the pizzas out of the oven. Both of them were burnt down one side. If she could afford it, she would have bought a new oven years ago, but at the moment, kitchen appliances were very low on her list of financial priorities, especially as she never did much cooking. There was just no way she could fit in cooking with her work at the local women’s clinic, bringing up a child on her own, and trying to keep their house in some kind of semblance of order.
“Mum, there’s a man at the door.”
“What does he want?” Sarah scraped off the worst of the burnt crust and began cutting each pizza into slices.
“I don’t know. You told me I shouldn’t open the door to strangers, but I looked through the letter box and he looks a bit like Hassan’s dad.”
Hassan was one of the kids that called Ali names. Many years ago, Hassan’s family had moved to England from Yazan, the same country where Sarah’s ex-husband was from. Sarah often wondered how much of the gossip about her in Yazan reached this distant corner of London. Back in Yazan, people had called her a slut because she slept with Akbar before they were married. At the time, she didn’t care what the other Bedouin women thought, but then when she married Akbar, she worked hard to earn people’s friendship, and hopefully, respect. However, there seemed to be little she could do to get other children to be friends with her son.
“Ali, was Hassan one of the boys who punched you?”
Ali was silent, which Sarah took for a yes.
“Maybe his dad’s come to apologise,” Sarah said hopefully, though somehow she doubted it. She knew that a Yazani man would never come to a woman’s house, especially a woman that lived on her own, unless, of course, she was a prostitute. A horrible thought crossed her mind: perhaps Hassan’s father or one of his uncles really thought she was on the game and had come to proposition her.
“Sit down and eat your pizza. I’ll go and sort this out.” Sarah put the burnt pizzas on the table on one of the few places that wasn’t covered in toys, newspapers, magazines, and unpaid bills. She tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, smearing it with melted cheese as she did so.
“What do you want?” she yelled down the corridor towards the front
“Come on. Let’s put our pizzas in the oven. And Ali, please, no more fighting.”
Sarah would have to call the school the next day to make another appointment with his teacher, Miss Baker, but she didn’t really hold out much hope that Ali’s teacher would be able to put an end to her child being bullied. As nice as she was, Miss Baker had little to suggest except trying to avoid the boys and ignore the name-calling. The only other solution was to change schools. However, that would mean moving to a new house, so that they would be in a different school district, but that wasn’t possible as the houses in the better locations also came with higher price tags. Sarah could barely afford to pay the mortgage on their tiny two-bedroom terrace house where they were, much less anything more expensive. Somehow, she and Ali would just have to find a way to sort things out.
******
Fifteen minutes later, the two pizzas were ready, but just as Sarah was taking them out of the oven, the doorbell rang.
“Ali, could you go and see who’s at the door?” Sarah asked. “Why do people always have to ring the doorbell just as we’re about to eat?” Sarah said more to herself than her son as she took the pizzas out of the oven. Both of them were burnt down one side. If she could afford it, she would have bought a new oven years ago, but at the moment, kitchen appliances were very low on her list of financial priorities, especially as she never did much cooking. There was just no way she could fit in cooking with her work at the local women’s clinic, bringing up a child on her own, and trying to keep their house in some kind of semblance of order.
“Mum, there’s a man at the door.”
“What does he want?” Sarah scraped off the worst of the burnt crust and began cutting each pizza into slices.
“I don’t know. You told me I shouldn’t open the door to strangers, but I looked through the letter box and he looks a bit like Hassan’s dad.”
Hassan was one of the kids that called Ali names. Many years ago, Hassan’s family had moved to England from Yazan, the same country where Sarah’s ex-husband was from. Sarah often wondered how much of the gossip about her in Yazan reached this distant corner of London. Back in Yazan, people had called her a slut because she slept with Akbar before they were married. At the time, she didn’t care what the other Bedouin women thought, but then when she married Akbar, she worked hard to earn people’s friendship, and hopefully, respect. However, there seemed to be little she could do to get other children to be friends with her son.
“Ali, was Hassan one of the boys who punched you?”
Ali was silent, which Sarah took for a yes.
“Maybe his dad’s come to apologise,” Sarah said hopefully, though somehow she doubted it. She knew that a Yazani man would never come to a woman’s house, especially a woman that lived on her own, unless, of course, she was a prostitute. A horrible thought crossed her mind: perhaps Hassan’s father or one of his uncles really thought she was on the game and had come to proposition her.
“Sit down and eat your pizza. I’ll go and sort this out.” Sarah put the burnt pizzas on the table on one of the few places that wasn’t covered in toys, newspapers, magazines, and unpaid bills. She tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, smearing it with melted cheese as she did so.
“What do you want?” she yelled down the corridor towards the front
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