The restaurant door, propped slightly open, mothering its smell of cookies to us. We’re mothered by everything because we know how to look for the mothering, because we know a mother might leave us and we’ll need another mother to step in and take its place. What no one will ever understand is that the world belongs to orphans, everything becomes our mother. The rain falls through the leaves and kisses us just so. In this world we were born into nothing but everything is ours: the sidewalk, the yellow markers in the road. Across the street Aisha howls, weaving, backpack dangling lightly off of one shoulder. My fingers wrapped in Noreen’s hair as she runs and I bounce on her back. The older one turns his head quickly and runs to catch up with his mom. His mother walks ahead towards the masjid, holding her younger son’s hand. His eyes zone in on me, moving from the bill wadded in my hand to the frayed collar of my shirt. Except for his color, he blends in perfectly with the other kids: parented, monied, belonging. A fair-skinned boy, almost white but not quite, wearing Uncle █████’s face.

On my way back to Aisha and Noreen I do a double take: there is Uncle █████’s oldest son, his kurta freshly ironed, screaming its newness. Then he’s gone, scuttling back towards the woman that he belongs to.

I saw you smoking, I say, hand still stretched out, until he digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled bill, nearly throwing it at me. His wife, duputta draped around her neck, is on the other side of the parking lot, looking for him like a confused chicken. The man raises his eyebrow and stares for a moment before a voice reaches out to him, calling his name. I cock my head slightly and tap my foot, seconds slipping until the Azan goes off and everyone disappears from their selective corners, the crack of a hundred knees sounds through the air. I’m an orphan, I say again, my hand outstretched, the braid of my pigtail coming undone.Īnyone who’s willing to love me gets a guaranteed entry to Jannah. It was Aisha’s idea to get money from the masjid so Meemoo doesn’t have to work more shifts. I’ll get you into heaven, I say to the man at the masjid, idling by his parked car, stubbing out his cigarette hastily so his wife won’t see before Jummah prayer. Along with Safia Elhillo, she is the editor of Halal If You Hear Me, an anthology that celebrates Muslim writers who are also women, queer, gender-nonconforming, and/or trans. She is the writer and co-creator of Brown Girls, an Emmy-nominated web series that highlights friendships between women of color. Asghar, author of If They Come for Us, is a poet, filmmaker, educator, and performer. The following is from Fatimah Asghar's When We Were Sisters.

When we were sisters fatimah