To Dave Eggers,

The voice of an Arab news anchor resonates in the background, announcing news about Egypt, Yemen, Tunisia but mostly Libya. I am sitting in the corner of the living room where a painting of a Moroccan alley hangs in the center. It looks just like the alleys in Libya, I think. I am not listening to the anchor but my attention will focus at the occasional mention of the capital of Libya; Tripoli, where my sister and brother are now. But, I don’t like thinking of that. Instead, I read your words on the page. You’re telling me a story about a Syrian man named, Zeitoun.

The story is oddly familiar but I have never before read anything so honest, so brave. I am reading about Zeitoun but it is not him I am thinking of. I am thinking of my nieces who, like Zeitoun’s children, are of Syrian descent and left father-less for a time. Zeitoun was locked in solitary-confinement after being found in New Orleans post Hurricane Katrina and suspected of looting, then terrorism given his ethnic background. But, I am not thinking of Zeitoun.

I am thinking of you as the author, your unbiased narrative, your ability to write about the controversial without overstepping the boundaries to preachy and sentimental. My father changes the channel to CNN and a commercial comes on. It is an advertisement about a special to be aired soon; it is called “Unwelcome: The Muslims Next Door”.

My sister snorts. I don’t.

You’re story progresses with Zeitoun in prison. Unknowingly, his face is replaced with my brother’s who I know to be in a prison somewhere in Libya as I write this. He was picked up in early March after attending Friday prayers. Gaddafi’s battalions surrounded them with AK47s and machetes and stormed into the mosque without taking off their shoes. Perhaps, my brother will find a messenger in prison like the missionary who was merciful enough to have taken a phone number from Zeitoun to call his wife Kathy, to tell her that her husband lived.

I read, no I watch Zeitoun watch another prisoner being tortured in the fence-like prison he is caged in. You use this word. Cage. It fits, I think. I’m glad you use it.

Zeitoun watches “helpless, knowing how depraved it was – this was punishment for the other prisoners, too. It diminished the humanity of them all”. That is me, I think. I look up to the television once again. I am watching.

That is when I understand the promise my parents made me make. I am the only person they told. I now know that my brother is not at an aunt’s house with extended legs, resting on an elbow while he waits out this storm. He is somewhere else, a place I have never seen before, a place stories have not yet explored. I am carrying this burdening news well. I feel strong knowing I am holding the extra weight for my sisters and nieces who still play games of jump rope. They are in high-spirits, overly optimistic. They think they can double-dutch.

I finish reading the narrative about Zeitoun and I think about his name. It means ‘olives’ in Arabic. Historically, olives have been a symbol of glory, power and peace. Zeitoun was all of those things when he climbed the plank to his neighbor’s home every day after Katrina to feed the abandoned dogs. He was all of those things when he rowed his way through flooded New Orleans in a motor-less canoe and followed the shouts of the old woman who helplessly clung to a shelf in attempt to escape the ever flowing ebb of water. Zeitoun was all of those things and you were smart enough to spot it passed the social-political construct called race. I close the book of Zeitoun and make a mental note to send you this letter, to thank you.

Sincerely,

Huda Buik