Fatima

As I sat waiting for my visa at the Syrian border people watching passed the time. Hundreds of visitors crossed by car and bus. Fatima was among them.

Fatima arrived in a large group of Saudi Arabian women covered from head to toe in flowing black burkahs. Some showed their face, others just their eyes - individuality noticeable through purses and trim on the black fabric that uniformally swept across the floor. They took the seats along the stark white wall. Fatima strategically sat next to me.

She was 12 years old. Her English was about as good as my Arabic, but I could tell that she was a firecracker. Her smile broadened when I said I was from America. "California?" she asked, her eyes bursting with questions she couldn't articulate but was dying to. She subtly, but strategically, lifted her skirt to expose the jeans she wore underneath and readjusted her tarhan showing the blond streaks she had proudly put in her hair. The other women kept their distance, but she relished every moment next to an American girl.

Conversation was difficult. She learned some English in school. She was on vacation in Syria. She like American music (or at least what she had heard of it). I gave her a chocolate. To my surprise instead of eating it she wrote something in Arabic on it to cement the memory. I hoped it wouldn't melt ruining not only her pocket but her souvenir of this meeting. Heather had a bracelet she decided she could part with. We gave it to Fatima in friendship and in hope that she might then part with the chocolate and avoid disaster and heartbreak. Her face glowed with excitement. Having already exhausted our vocabularies, "How old are you?" "What is your name?" "My name is..." we sat satisfied with our exchange and enjoyed the mutual excitement and curiousity that surrounded our friendship, however brief. She soon left with her bus, but ran back a few minutes later to say goodbye and give us a black leather bracelet adorned with bronze studs and crystal sparkles.

As Fatima left, Heather and I contemplated her fate. What would it be like to be born into her society with so much life? Fatima would not be content with handbags and trim. It was a sad thought, but this brief brush with the West could be a highlight in her life. I wish I had gotten her email or an address. I would have liked to continue to follow this remarkable girl as she found her way.