Banana Sandwich
by Dana Alshekhlee
The strumming of the Arab oud sings to me on a cold autumn morning. The sound resonates, distant, yet still so convenient that it replaces my personal alarm clock to awaken me. I crack my door open, and the aroma of toasted grains and fresh cheese instantly fuses with the cool aura of my room. As I head downstairs, the once muffled noise augments until I am met with my father’s beaming face. He smiles as if it's the first time he has ever seen me, and pulls me in for a hug.
“Sabah El Khair. Look who finally woke up!” Baba greets me, and takes a sip of energy from his teacup as if he needs more of it. “What would you like for breakfast?”
I look towards our fruit bowl, ready to devour my predictable meal. To my dismay, brown speckles dot the margins of my breakfast. The vibrancy of its exterior was robbed. My cluster of bananas passed their prime time: they were poisoned.
“These bananas are too ripe!” I complain about the one day difference of an accessible fruit’s maturity. Baba laughs, as if I couldn’t just retrieve a new batch if I was truly that desperate. A flashback briefly takes him back to his childhood before he reverts back to reality. A cool breeze transforms the concoction of toasted grains and cheese into fresh samoun, or bread, and kabobs. Red, orange, and yellow leaves in my backyard default into their greener counterparts. We are in Iraq.
He begins to tell me of his youth. Palm trees scatter around low-lying homes in the large neighborhoods. Grass disappears into barren, desert ground. No one seems to care. Baba walks, in a large group, towards his elementary school. Mischievous boys run around, chasing a soccer ball in between their classes. On the way home, Baba purchases more samoun for the rest of his family.
The group of boys come across a railroad on their trek back home. Their bodies swing from the trains, laughing in disobedience, careful to make sure no one watches. Baba returns home, wondering what the day’s social gathering will consist of. The family goes to a nearby park, setting up a picnic-like spread. Baba and his brothers run around, chasing a different soccer ball. Life is simple. He does not even know what a banana is yet.
Baba is the youngest brother of eight siblings. Everyone hit different milestones at similar times: moving to work, going to college, walking to high school, getting married. In high school, Baba appreciates his extended freedom. His mother finally lets him roam the town with his friends, taking the bus to different areas.
And then the war hits.
Iraqi citizens take on the Persian Gulf War with uncertainty. A corrupt government translated into more limited shipments of different varieties of food. Banana shipments were out of the question. Stories of bombs dropping in random and innocent neighborhoods suffocate families.
Baba has never said no to ice cream. I joke that my sweet tooth is genetic, and that it stems from him. Baba is fourteen years old, and is off getting ice cream with his friends. The same way I get ice cream with my friends. Glass windows cover the ice cream shop, attracting every child in its presence. An aura of sweet waffle cones and creamy white vanilla ice cream mix in the air, poking at Baba’s cravings. He stands about seven feet away from these windows. Crowds comfortably congest on the streets: They are in a public circle. All of a sudden, an unfortunately familiar sound thunders throughout the sky. No one has time to process the blast before the glass windows, once protecting excitement and euphoria, shatter in defeat. Later, Baba finds out that a missile landed about a mile away. This is their norm. And I have the audacity to complain about my ripened banana.
Baba’s tranquility is uncomfortable in war. The pace of life picks up after Baba realizes he wants to leave. The longer he stays, the more likely he is to be enlisted into the war. College in Iraq is determined by the daunting Baccalaureate. Senior year, students are given forty days to study for a week of cumulative exams, and these scores determine their future careers. Baba has low expectations for his scores to prevent disappointment, but he still creates a nonnegotiable regimen for himself. Wake up, study, breakfast, study, lunch, study, dinner, study, sleep. And repeat. His nephews report on how he isolates himself in his room during this time period. They can barely get him out of his room for a meal.
At this time, Baba finally learns about bananas, and even tries his own for the first time. His father came from a trip from Jordan, and brought back a few to try. Green and starchy, Baba recalls the bananas in their blatantly unripe form. Regardless, Baba and his siblings devour the unready fruit. I now see why he laughs at my own privileged complaints.
Baba works at a mall the summer after he takes his exam, but still waits in anticipation for the results. Finally, the test scores come out, and are posted on the window of the school front doors. Talk about privacy. Everyone’s results were visible for each other to see. Baba’s friend rushes into the mall where he worked to share the news as soon as they are revealed.
94.1%
Baba’s score is celebrated by his family, teachers, coworkers, friends, neighbors. Everyone in the streets congratulates him. His high score gives him liberty and security to apply wherever he desires, in whichever field he desires. He applies and gets accepted into the University of Baghdad’s College of Medicine. Baba was set to become the first physician in his family.
Me and Baba are in the 1990s, while medical school during war is a challenge of its own. After their first year, the male students and teachers are taken to a military boot camp for an indefinite amount of time. Dictator Saddam Hussain uses these students and teachers to intimidate Iran, pretending like he has large numbers of soldiers. They finally return after four months for their second year of medical school, simply unrested for the new year.
The summer after their second year, Baba and his peers are obligated to attend another summer military camp in the desert, six hours away. In the midst of intense physical exercise and training, the boys attempt to use socializing, board games, and cards to cope with their anxieties. I think about the rigor of my own pre-medical courses, and cannot imagine not having summers to relax due to government corruption. I don’t know how he did it.
Baba successfully takes on the next years of medical school before leaving to Yemen to study for his USMLE exams, striving towards his ultimate American Dream: He yearns to raise a family in a land with more opportunity, freedom, safety, bananas. Baba quickly notices the abundance of bananas in Yemen, and he cannot not get enough. Baba slices his banana, and places the slices in a sandwich. Interesting concoction. His previous deprivation really provoked his creativity.
Baba takes his exams, and moves to Maryland to look for a job. This was the land where his future would persist. All of this for my future.
The green palm tree’s leaves morph back into the golden yellows and bright oranges within my backyard. Autumn takes over. Baba peels and slices the banana that I had previously scowled at, seeing the brown markings as blessings instead of toxins. I grab a slice of toast out of the toaster, but I add a little bit of peanut butter and honey to make my own version of his Banana Sandwich.
by Dana Alshekhlee
The strumming of the Arab oud sings to me on a cold autumn morning. The sound resonates, distant, yet still so convenient that it replaces my personal alarm clock to awaken me. I crack my door open, and the aroma of toasted grains and fresh cheese instantly fuses with the cool aura of my room. As I head downstairs, the once muffled noise augments until I am met with my father’s beaming face. He smiles as if it's the first time he has ever seen me, and pulls me in for a hug.
“Sabah El Khair. Look who finally woke up!” Baba greets me, and takes a sip of energy from his teacup as if he needs more of it. “What would you like for breakfast?”
I look towards our fruit bowl, ready to devour my predictable meal. To my dismay, brown speckles dot the margins of my breakfast. The vibrancy of its exterior was robbed. My cluster of bananas passed their prime time: they were poisoned.
“These bananas are too ripe!” I complain about the one day difference of an accessible fruit’s maturity. Baba laughs, as if I couldn’t just retrieve a new batch if I was truly that desperate. A flashback briefly takes him back to his childhood before he reverts back to reality. A cool breeze transforms the concoction of toasted grains and cheese into fresh samoun, or bread, and kabobs. Red, orange, and yellow leaves in my backyard default into their greener counterparts. We are in Iraq.
He begins to tell me of his youth. Palm trees scatter around low-lying homes in the large neighborhoods. Grass disappears into barren, desert ground. No one seems to care. Baba walks, in a large group, towards his elementary school. Mischievous boys run around, chasing a soccer ball in between their classes. On the way home, Baba purchases more samoun for the rest of his family.
The group of boys come across a railroad on their trek back home. Their bodies swing from the trains, laughing in disobedience, careful to make sure no one watches. Baba returns home, wondering what the day’s social gathering will consist of. The family goes to a nearby park, setting up a picnic-like spread. Baba and his brothers run around, chasing a different soccer ball. Life is simple. He does not even know what a banana is yet.
Baba is the youngest brother of eight siblings. Everyone hit different milestones at similar times: moving to work, going to college, walking to high school, getting married. In high school, Baba appreciates his extended freedom. His mother finally lets him roam the town with his friends, taking the bus to different areas.
And then the war hits.
Iraqi citizens take on the Persian Gulf War with uncertainty. A corrupt government translated into more limited shipments of different varieties of food. Banana shipments were out of the question. Stories of bombs dropping in random and innocent neighborhoods suffocate families.
Baba has never said no to ice cream. I joke that my sweet tooth is genetic, and that it stems from him. Baba is fourteen years old, and is off getting ice cream with his friends. The same way I get ice cream with my friends. Glass windows cover the ice cream shop, attracting every child in its presence. An aura of sweet waffle cones and creamy white vanilla ice cream mix in the air, poking at Baba’s cravings. He stands about seven feet away from these windows. Crowds comfortably congest on the streets: They are in a public circle. All of a sudden, an unfortunately familiar sound thunders throughout the sky. No one has time to process the blast before the glass windows, once protecting excitement and euphoria, shatter in defeat. Later, Baba finds out that a missile landed about a mile away. This is their norm. And I have the audacity to complain about my ripened banana.
Baba’s tranquility is uncomfortable in war. The pace of life picks up after Baba realizes he wants to leave. The longer he stays, the more likely he is to be enlisted into the war. College in Iraq is determined by the daunting Baccalaureate. Senior year, students are given forty days to study for a week of cumulative exams, and these scores determine their future careers. Baba has low expectations for his scores to prevent disappointment, but he still creates a nonnegotiable regimen for himself. Wake up, study, breakfast, study, lunch, study, dinner, study, sleep. And repeat. His nephews report on how he isolates himself in his room during this time period. They can barely get him out of his room for a meal.
At this time, Baba finally learns about bananas, and even tries his own for the first time. His father came from a trip from Jordan, and brought back a few to try. Green and starchy, Baba recalls the bananas in their blatantly unripe form. Regardless, Baba and his siblings devour the unready fruit. I now see why he laughs at my own privileged complaints.
Baba works at a mall the summer after he takes his exam, but still waits in anticipation for the results. Finally, the test scores come out, and are posted on the window of the school front doors. Talk about privacy. Everyone’s results were visible for each other to see. Baba’s friend rushes into the mall where he worked to share the news as soon as they are revealed.
94.1%
Baba’s score is celebrated by his family, teachers, coworkers, friends, neighbors. Everyone in the streets congratulates him. His high score gives him liberty and security to apply wherever he desires, in whichever field he desires. He applies and gets accepted into the University of Baghdad’s College of Medicine. Baba was set to become the first physician in his family.
Me and Baba are in the 1990s, while medical school during war is a challenge of its own. After their first year, the male students and teachers are taken to a military boot camp for an indefinite amount of time. Dictator Saddam Hussain uses these students and teachers to intimidate Iran, pretending like he has large numbers of soldiers. They finally return after four months for their second year of medical school, simply unrested for the new year.
The summer after their second year, Baba and his peers are obligated to attend another summer military camp in the desert, six hours away. In the midst of intense physical exercise and training, the boys attempt to use socializing, board games, and cards to cope with their anxieties. I think about the rigor of my own pre-medical courses, and cannot imagine not having summers to relax due to government corruption. I don’t know how he did it.
Baba successfully takes on the next years of medical school before leaving to Yemen to study for his USMLE exams, striving towards his ultimate American Dream: He yearns to raise a family in a land with more opportunity, freedom, safety, bananas. Baba quickly notices the abundance of bananas in Yemen, and he cannot not get enough. Baba slices his banana, and places the slices in a sandwich. Interesting concoction. His previous deprivation really provoked his creativity.
Baba takes his exams, and moves to Maryland to look for a job. This was the land where his future would persist. All of this for my future.
The green palm tree’s leaves morph back into the golden yellows and bright oranges within my backyard. Autumn takes over. Baba peels and slices the banana that I had previously scowled at, seeing the brown markings as blessings instead of toxins. I grab a slice of toast out of the toaster, but I add a little bit of peanut butter and honey to make my own version of his Banana Sandwich.