Arab Calligraphy, Islamic Art, and a Little Black Notebook

“And that’s why my property taxes are going up? For the radical left-wing indoctrination of my youngest daughter?” Hannah lowered the volume pumping through her earphones as her mother vented.

Hannah felt a bit sympathy for her younger sister, whose indirect punishment for her political diversion was certainly going to be endless hours of volunteering at their local church back home.

It was the last week of the fall semester. The rain tapped at the roots of her hair and pitter-pattered on the surface of the Charles River. After reassuring her mother and hanging up, she saw an email notification from the office of financial services. She veered off the hard path towards the nearest bench. She sat, read the email, then sighed and rubbed her fingers to her temples. She shivered, then looked down and spotted a little notebook.

Its cover was black, smooth leather. She looked around, hoping to spot someone speed-walking her way to whom she could hand over the forgotten notebook, but no such luck. She picked it up. Its edge sat comfortably against the fleshy corner of her thumb and pointer finger. She flipped the cover open. On the inside, it read:

Owner: Ahmad Al-Said

Email: [email protected]

Reward: 10,000 Omani rials :)

Hannah looked at the unfamiliar name, the email address from her university, and the large amount of whatever a rial was. She assumed that it probably wasn’t worth much more than a soda can.

She flipped to the first page: it was different. It wasn’t English, nor was it any language she could identify, but it was beautiful. The thin pages bore fluctuating lines that formed bending symbols, and marks that created magnificent images. This one was of a bird, this one was of Tufts’ insignia, and this one… a mosque. She closed the notebook, placed it back on the wet bench. She stood, then sat again, picked up the notebook, and looked at Ahmad’s email.

…

Hannah knew which one Ahmad was the moment she stepped around the corner. Because of the rain, only a handful of people lingered around the entrance of Tisch Library. One was an older man that crossed the small quad without a second glance, another was a blond boy sporting flip-flops despite the cold. The third suspect stood by a bare flower bed to the right of the entrance, one hand folded in the crook of his arm while the other held an umbrella as he surveyed the space with dark eyes.

Hannah realized she had seconds before his gaze would land on her, seconds before she’d have to acknowledge Ahmad Al-Said.

She looked away as she collected herself, and sure enough, when she looked back, he waved and began to walk towards her. She moved to meet him halfway. The closer he got, the more details she noticed: black curly hair, thick eyebrows, a neat polo, dark jeans.

“Hannah?” he asked in a light accent.

“Yep. You’re Ahmad?” Hannah asked, his name sounding all wrong in her mouth, the same way her father said Mohammad when he told her to stay away from him in middle school, the same way her navy brother said Muslim when he returned from his campaign in Syria.

“The one and only,” he smiled. Hannah propped her backpack up on one knee and reached for the zipper. “That’s a joke, by the way. Ahmad is like the third most common name in the world,” he added.

She felt around for the soft leather spine. She could tell that he was trying to be friendly, and her instinct was to respond in kind, yet something held her back.

“That’s interesting.”

She finally pulled the notebook out and held it towards him.

“Thanks. You don’t know how much this thing means to me,” he received it with his free hand. The misting rain began to fall heavier. “And you know, I’m even more grateful than most. My name comes from an arabic root that means to thank. So, thank you, again.” Ahmad slid it into his satchel as he turned to walk away.

Hannah realized that if she didn’t say something that exact moment, she would never get the chance to again. In her world, Hannah’s and Ahmad’s just didn’t cross paths. Not without a little wet black notebook.

“Um, hey… Ahmad?” she grimaced as she certainly butchered the pronunciation, but it was worth stopping him in his tracks. Ahmad turned, little raindrops flying off his black umbrella. “Am I saying that right?”

“Yeah, you’re good,” he smiled.

Liar, she thought. But she was surprisingly flattered at his attempt to make her comfortable.

“I know it’s none of my business, but—” Hannah started, “—what’s in the Moleskin?” Ahmad had returned close enough to tilt the umbrella forward and shield her from the rain. Her eyes dropped to the zipper of his satchel, in which he’d stored the notebook.

“Instructions for how to make a pressure cooker bomb.”

Her eyes must have bugged out of her head as her gaze shot back up to his face, because he immediately laughed and put his free hand up, “I’m just messing with you, Hannah.”

“Oh. Right,” she started, flustered. “Of course.” She hoped she wasn’t blushing. “So, all those lines and swirls and stuff, they’re…?”

“Calligraphy.”

“So, writing? Those are words?”

He nodded, “I wish I could prove it to you, but I assume you don’t read Arabic?” he pulled the notebook back out and tucked the umbrella handle under his armpit as he leafed through the thin, deeply inked pages.

“Obviously not.”

“Why obviously?” he turned the notebook towards her. She resisted the urge to touch the dark swirls beneath his fingertips, so free and moving she could almost see figures in the twirling marks the way she used to trace shapes in the clouds when she was little. Even the word calligraphy sounded marvelous. “I’m actually about to head to the tutoring center where I tutor Arabic. There’s only two types that ever come for lessons: pretty hipster girls, and conservative army jocks. So that would put you somewhere in the middle.” He smiled.

So am I pretty or a jock? she thought, amused.

“I have no one booked for the first hour—come with me.”

“What? Oh, no, I can’t,” she replied immediately. “I’m tabling at the fair today.”

“For what club?”

She considered him for a moment before answering: “The Pro-Life Club.”

He nodded, unfazed, then looked upwards, “I know you guys get a lot of push-back on campus, but even you might not be able to conquer the weather.”

Hannah realized he was right. She hadn’t checked her email yet, but the fair was likely postponed because of the rain. Ahmad checked his phone, “Yup. Moved to next week.”

“What club are you in?” she asked, understanding.

“Muslim Student Association,” he pocketed the phone again.

“Oh, your table was next to ours in the September involvement fair,” she recollected, “but I didn’t see you there.”

“Yeah, that time I was manning the swing dance club.”

“Oh, cool.” She tried not to seem too surprised.

“So… you coming? The tutoring session starts in ten minutes, and your only excuse was canceled half an hour ago,” he smiled.

Stay away from Mohammad types, Hannah, Her mother’s voice rang through her head, They don’t respect the American way of life.

She imagined the calligraphy again, watched it swirl and dance into birds, jewels, stars…

“Sure,” she finally said. “Plus, I have to keep tabs on you. You owe me ten thousand Omani Royals,” she added, feeling clever.

“Rials,” he corrected, “And, of course. How could I forget?”

…

Ahmad led Hannah to a round table in the corner of the tutoring center.

“Can I show you something?” he asked as they sat down. She nodded. He pulled his laptop out of his satchel and flipped it open. Before he launched Chrome, Hannah caught sight of his brilliant screen saver with mesmerizing patterns of aqua blues and magenta pinks. He noticed her staring and paused with his hand on the cursor pad.

“Is that a…” she started.

“A mosque? Yeah, it’s the most famous one in Muscat, the capital of Oman. That’s where I’m from.”

“Wow. To be honest, I’ve never thought about the inside of a mosque.”

And if she was being truly honest, even if she had, she would have never envisioned anything so beautiful.

“And I’ve never really thought about the inside of a church,” he laughed. He opened YouTube, searched for “فن الخط العماني,” and clicked on the fourth video result. Hannah rested her chin in her hand as she leaned closer and he skipped to a minute into the video. Ahmad offered her an earphone and they listened to acoustic strumming that sounded similar to a guitar, except deeper and fuller. They watched a soft old hand wield a wooden tool across a white canvas. Minutes passed and a magnificent crescent moon appeared from the intermingling Arabic letters. Hannah was transfixed by the delicate motions of the man’s tan fingers.

“He’s my grandfather.”

“What?” Her gaze flickered to Ahmad and then down to the video’s views and the channel’s subscribers. “This account has millions of followers.”

“Yeah. My family is pretty popular back where I come from,” he smiled.

“Oman?”

“Yeah. Next to Yemen and Saudi Arabia. Where are you from?”

“Kentucky,” she answered with a laugh. The distance between the Appalachian Mountains and the Middle East had never felt shorter to her.

“All I know about Kentucky is rednecks and Mountain Dew.”

“Well, all I know about the Middle East is oil fields and… pressure cookers.”

They both laughed, earning a glare from the nearby linear algebra tutor.

“No, but really, tell me about Kentucky. Tell me about Hannah McCoy.”

“There’s not too much to know. I come from a simple household with blue collar parents and four kids. Lots of churches, not many mosques.”

“Blue collar? How are you affording Tufts?”

“I’m not,” Hannah laughed bitterly. “I’m trying to graduate early to save some money.” She suddenly felt subconscious and turned the conversation back to him. “What about you? What is a kid from Oman doing in Boston?”

“I’m studying abroad for a year. I love traveling and I’ve spent a lot of time in Paris, so I figured why not hop over the Atlantic?”

“Ahmad, sorry to bother you,” the lady from the front desk glanced quickly between the two of them as she approached the table, “but you got a last minute booking for a half-hour tutoring session.” She gestured towards a girl waiting near the front door. The girl strode over, all hipster thick rimmed glasses, hand-knit beanie, and pink ombre hair.

“Mar-HAH-bah!” she gushed, slamming her 36 ounce YETI water bottle on the table and opening her COEXIST and peace-sign sticker-laden laptop.

Hannah glanced at Ahmad. He winked, and she left the tutoring center smiling.

…

The next morning, Hannah found an envelope taped to her door. The thick paper within was framed in gold. It read:

Dear Hannah,

Us Arabs value our words above all else. We tie our dignity and our honor directly to the promises we make to those around us. Growing up in a region that was constantly colonized and oppressed, we knew early on that we, as a people, needed to trust each other.

Now you can say that you know three things about the Middle East.

This is why I am keeping my promise to you and rewarding you with what you are owed for returning my little black notebook.

Yours truly,

Ahmad Al-Said

A check fluttered out of the envelope. Hannah’s disbelieving eyes floated back to the bottom margin of the letter.

In official print, it said: Correspondence of the Crown Prince of the Sultanate of Oman, Ahmad Al-Said.

Just beneath it was:

P.S. 10K Omani rials is about $20K. I hope this helps you graduate at your own pace.