Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

Leaving
The kids in the neighborhood used to call it the tortoise house. Even after they grew up
into adults, it was the tortoise house. They would say, “Let’s go see what’s happening in bait al
sulhafaa.” Hamza could see why. His mother’s house had a large dome, not demure enough to be
mistaken for a masjid, for it stretched across the entire expanse of the roof. There was not even
space for a water tank or satellite dish.
From below, the roof seemed to have moss growing up the curve, as if the absurd
structure defied the weather. But when standing at the gate and looking up, the green glistened
and gave themselves away as scattered little green tiles. Mismatched and irregular, looking like
someone had spilled them there.
When Hamza’s parents moved into the house, it really had been an empty shell, waiting
patiently to be filled. His father’s father built it for his eldest son, but that man decided to live
alone and didn’t want to waste such a grand house on just himself. Hamza never asked if his
mother liked the house or if she would have ever chosen anything like it, because it hurt him to
know about things that he couldn’t change. She must have liked it enough.
The green tiles story was a hard one to acquire, his mother always laughed in a special
way when he asked. But he got it eventually when his father was sick and they couldn’t travel for
a whole year. Hamza and his siblings took turns throwing tantrums that year, angry but unable
to direct their anger. Hamza didn’t even care about the stupid tiles by the time that his mother
told him, sitting outside on the garden bench, holding his head.
One evening, she climbed up to the roof while her husband was out for prayer. She had
asked her friend, whose husband was a contractor to get her something to decorate the dome
with. She wanted to add her own touch to the place. He brought her a small bucket of dust and
told her to mix it with water to make concrete, then gave her a heavy bag of things that clicked
together.
She made multiple trips up and down the metal ladder and slathered concrete until she
ran out of tiles. When Hamza’s father had come back, she said, he looked around for her in the
house for what he said were many hours. Until he came out and saw her shape on the roof,
wiping the tiles with the colorful shawl around her shoulders.
“​Maynoona​!” he called out to her. When she recounted this to Hamza, she put on a gruff
voice and puffed her chest. Hamza felt even angrier at him. His mother didn’t notice, she said
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