by Noor Hindi

The store was alive. The city was dead.

Anorexic wallets, water shortages, lack of food; this was only the beginning. But his store was the most vibrant part of that street. Shops opened up all the time; but you would frequently find cheap handmade “store closing” signs hung in a lopsided direction on door knobs soon after they had opened. Homeless men scattered the perimeter looking for food. But through all of this destruction, he wore a peaceful smile on his face. It was reassuring.

I remember the walks to his store.

The cement beneath my feet was always unpaved, uneven, broken. It always seemed to be weighed down by the countless trash scattered above it. Boys in tattered shorts and unmatched T-shirts kicked soccer balls that flew under the blazing sun. Women in black veils and men in beards wandered through the streets. Beep Beep, cars honked; traffic jams never ceased to exist in the streets of Amman, Jordan.

“Salam Alaikum,” he would mouth, in Arabic, as customers entered through the shabby door that played the role of an entrance. This was followed by a smile and a slight nod. His light brown skin seemed to match the olive colored polo shirt, dark gray dress pants, and scruffy black shoes he would frequently wear. The tiny walls clung together, looking as if they would give up at any given moment. But the store thrived. Boys and girls frequently visited his shop leaving with ice-cream dripping from the corners of their mouths and half eaten chocolate bars. I was one of those kids. “Salam Noor! Candy right?” he would eagerly shout. I always loved these soda bottle shaped candies that tasted like Pepsi. Those were my favorite and he knew it just like he knew everyone else’s name and favorite snack.

Sometimes they would be sitting on his glass counter ready for check out, waiting to be devoured, when I walked in. When they were not, I enjoyed watching his skinny hands as he reached into a see-through plastic container with a small shovel, grab a handful, place them into a bag, and hand them to me. I would eagerly wait, holding my dinar as I peeked over the counter. Depending on what else I bought, he would consistently beat the cash register when it came to figuring out how much change to give me. Right before I left his shop, he would cheerfully wave and smile.

Sometimes he would close the store during the day in order to repack. During these hours, he would lug boxes of inventory. Sweat trickled down his bony face as he carried boxes that seemed gigantic compared to his short stature and flimsy arms and legs. He would then strategically arrange them by item and price around the store. Everything in the shop was neatly organized. The walls were decorated with verses from the Quran and a crescent moon hung from the ceiling to signify Ramadan. On the counters you could find boxes of dates, cactus fruits, and figs followed by baklava, Burma fingers, and other sweet pastries.

One day as I walked the irregular street to his store, I was stopped by the sound of his voice echoing through the doorway to where I was standing. He was chanting. “Allah Akbar,” he recited. I and a group of other children stood at the door, eyes wide, jaws dropped, listening. A prayer rug occupied the floor. It was about one meter long and was decorated with a picture of Mecca. He sat on top of it, perched, with his back to us, reciting the Quran. “In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,” he chanted. Grownups followed, staring, too. Astonished, everyone eyed one another, speaking the language of silence.

I gazed at a woman standing next to me. She eyed him with the concentrated intensity of a chess player assessing her opponents every move. She nodded rhythmically with the tempo of his voice, embracing the words, taking in his tone. With my American bred eyes, I continued to gaze. I knew that this man, who owned a shabby little store, was not higher up in the social ranking. But a Sheikh, who could recite, read, interpret, and chant the Quran with such grace, was important. It wasn’t the actual praying that was overwhelming-everyone prayed-it was the way the praying was done. Like a prominent Sheikh.

He shook the street with his voice.

His words held a strange weight as they made their way into our ears. Puzzled tears, mixed with astonished beauty streaked the faces of many. His soft, delicate voice carried us.

“Thee do we worship, and thine aid we seek,” he recited. Hope blossomed like a flower, its scent filled the noses of the lost, the heartbroken, and the hopeless. And everyone standing, watching, listening to the beauty being unveiled before us could see his strength illuminating his short, fragile body.

Suddenly he was more than just your average Joe working full time at a store he owned. His strength exploded, and everyone was a witness. To us, he was no longer just that-one-guy-who-sold-candy at the corner shop.

He finished his prayers, folded his rug, went behind the counter, and continued his day as a salesman.

But in our eyes, he was never the same.