20

Spas Dikum

A most amazing smell was drifting up to Nadima’s bedroom – sort of spicy and sweet. By the time her mum called us down to eat, Nadima’s dad had got home and was sitting at the table. He was wearing an old pair of jeans and a tatty sweatshirt. He wasn’t old, but what I noticed most about him was the grey, almost white, hairs in his dark beard and the wrinkles round his eyes. He seemed nice, but meeting people’s dads always makes me a bit nervous. Probably because I haven’t got one.

‘Hel-lo. I am Nadima father,’ he said slowly and in a very thick accent.

‘I am Jaz, hello,’ I said, just as slowly.

He nodded and smiled at me. I wasn’t sure whether to try to say anything else – I didn’t know how much English he knew and I didn’t want to embarrass him. So we just sat there.

There was a bit of an uncomfortable silence, but fortunately her mum soon came in with the food on a big round dish. It was some sort of spicy lamb stew, on a bed of yellow rice, with roasted almonds sprinkled on the top and slices of lemons around the edge. It looked fabulous and smelled even better. Her mum had obviously gone to a huge amount of trouble to make me something really special. I cringed when I remembered the pizzas we’d given Nadima at ours.

‘What is it?’ I asked Nadima.

‘Is mansaf,’ she replied. ‘Is lamb.’

‘Mmm, I love lamb!’ I cried.

Her mum handed me a plateful and I took a forkful.

‘Is good? Yes?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Yes, yes! It’s delicious!’ I mumbled with my mouth full, and she beamed at me.

Then Rasha and Sami started jabbering away in Kurdish, and soon the rest of the family joined in and, even though I couldn’t understand a word of it, it was much better than us all sitting there in total silence.

So I just kept eating and smiling. I smiled so much I thought my face would get stuck. Nadima translated as much as she could – which wasn’t much.

Then she tried to teach me to say ‘spas dikum’ which means ‘thank you’ in Kurdish.

I had a go, and both her parents smiled at me. Nadima and Rasha, on the other hand, fell about laughing. Huh!

After we’d eaten, we all sat in the living room and her parents tried to talk to me. I think they’d learned some sentences specially. Which was really lovely of them, when you think about it.

‘In Syria, we have sweet shop,’ announced her dad proudly.

‘I make lots of sweets,’ said her mum. ‘I show you.’ Picking up their laptop she showed me some photos of Syrian sweets for sale in a market.

And OMG they looked amazing. Like those little sweet sticky pastries you get in Greek restaurants, and all piled up in towering pyramids. Nadima’s mum pointed at them and rattled off a list of names. I couldn’t keep up.

Then Nadima pointed at one. ‘I like best. Is baklava.’

‘Baklava! I’ve had baklava!’ I said.

‘Ah!’ they all cried together, and burst out clapping!

I’ve never been applauded for eating sweets before! It was a crazy moment. Crazy, but lovely.

Then Nadima tried to teach Sami to say ‘Jaz’ – but he was too shy.

When Matt came to pick me up, Nadima’s mum handed me a plastic tub with the Turkish Delight she’d made. It was still a bit gloopy, and she said something to Nadima.

Nadima took out her phone, typed for few seconds and then showed me the screen.

‘OK!’ I nodded. Then I added, ‘Spas dikum!’ I wished I’d thought to learn how to say ‘Goodbye’ in Kurdish too.

As we drove along the street, I looked at the other houses, and I remember thinking it was weird. They were ordinary people, living in an ordinary house in an ordinary street – like everyone else. But they weren’t just like everyone else, were they? Her story wasn’t just ordinary, was it? And nobody knew.