51

Happy Eid!

That evening after school Nadima texted me:

Friday 6.30

Is Eid. Can you come?

I texted back:

YES!

So on Friday I went back to Nadima’s after school. They took me to this Kurdish restaurant, run by some people they had made friends with.

It was really small, and it was amazing! I’d never been anywhere like it. Nadima said it was just like the restaurants back in Syria. But everything was Kurdish! The music … the food … even the menu.

There weren’t any chairs. We all sat on big colourful cushions around a large low table. Huge lanterns hung from the ceiling, spilling coloured light and making everything look magical. Brass candleholders threw flickering patterns around the room. The scent of the food drifting out from the kitchens, and from other people’s meals, was warm and spicy and soooo tempting! I remembered the first meal Nadima’s mum had ever cooked me.

Sami had clambered onto Nadima’s lap while they all looked at the menu and decided what to order. They were speaking in Kurdish and Sami must have said something funny because they all laughed, and Nadima’s dad ruffled his hair. Her mum shot them such a look of love it made my throat go all tight.

Watching her family together, celebrating and laughing, looking so happy, you’d never guess what they’d been through. Not just back home in Syria but also on the frightening journey they’d made getting here. Not to mention having to start a new life all over again, in a country where they didn’t know anyone, or even speak the language. It made me realise how strong they were. All of them. It made me proud of Nadima, and proud to be her friend.

Nadima turned to me and handed me the menu. Then, pointing at some of the dishes, she added, ‘We get this, and this, and this. We all share. You choose too! What want?’

Actually, there was a bit of a problem with the menu. I couldn’t read it. Not because it was in Kurdish – there was an English bit as well – but because it was written in a fancy font and, as you know, I really, really, struggle to untangle those. Why don’t people think? Lots of dyslexics can’t read curly-whirly letters. It drives me nuts. Anyhow, I didn’t want to admit in front of Nadima’s family that I couldn’t read the menu. So I pretended to look at it for a while, and I picked something at random.

Nadima gave me a funny look. ‘Not lamb? You love lamb!’

‘Um … I thought I’d try something else.’ I shot her a look and hoped she wasn’t going to make a fuss.

She looked at the menu. ‘Is funny writing,’ she frowned. ‘Is very hard to read. We choose together, OK?’

I grinned at her. ‘Fine!’

Once we’d ordered, Nadima’s mum fished in her handbag and handed Nadima a present. Nadima promptly handed it to me.

‘Is for you. Is present for Eid,’ she said. I was mega-embarrassed. I hadn’t realised presents for Eid were a thing, and I didn’t have anything for any of them. Her family were all looking at me and smiling expectantly. So I undid the paper and took out the present. It was a bracelet.

‘Nadima make for you!’ said Rasha shyly.

‘You like it?’ asked Nadima.

‘Yes, I love it!’ I said, holding out my arm for her to tie it onto me. ‘Thank you!’

It was made from plaited blue and silver threads (my favourite colours) with letter beads strung onto it. The beads were simple white squares with black letters. Apart from the first letter, which was a capital letter, the rest were little letters. She must have chosen them specially so it was dead easy for me to read. It said:

N a d i m a

‘Is Kurdish friendship bracelet,’ she said, ‘It says “friend”.’

‘No, it doesn’t!’ I laughed, giving her a friendly shove. ‘It says “Nadima”!’

‘Ah, but name “Nadima” means “friend”,’ she said, smiling that smile which lights her whole face up.

‘Actually, the name “Nadima” means “Best Friend” to me. “Best Friend Forever”!’ I said, throwing my arms round her in a huge hug.

I’ll never forget the day I met Nadima.

From the moment we swapped chunks of chocolate and Turkish Delight, I knew, I just knew, we were going to be best friends. And I also know we always will be. Don’t ask me how. I just know.