When Sami woke up from his nap no the cozy, oversized leather recliner, an old black-and-white Egyptian film was playing on the gigantic TV screen. Startled at finding himself there, he didn’t identify the actors or recall the film’s title as he does usually. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t lower the footrest. He forgot he could easily do that using the release handle on the lower right side. A number-less rectangular clock rested on the wall above the TV. Its hands pointed to 3:15. Wooden bookshelves covered the wall on the right. All the titles were in English. To the left of the TV sat an enormous fireplace with a firebox bricked up. Elegantly framed photographs of various sizes sat on its white mantel. Leaning on both armrests, he moved his feet off the footrest and got up. The remote control fell off his lap and landed on the hardwood floor. He took three steps toward the fireplace and scrutinized the photographs. A handsome man with dark skin and black hair stood next to a blond woman and two children in one of them. The same couple appeared in other photographs with the two children, or with other people. But he didn’t recognize anyone. Sami was stunned to see himself standing with all four in one photograph. Yet another, in black-and-white, had him standing next to his wife, Ma’arib. How did they get their hands on this one? How did they put him in these photographs with all those strangers?
He couldn’t process what was taking place. It’s not a nightmare. One cannot wake up to one. He heard the howling of a fast car driving by outside and turned to his left. The drawn white curtains of three bay windows welcomed the afternoon sun. A large copper plate on a rectangular acacia wood coffee table nearby reflected its rays. Using his right hand, he averted his eyes and caught sight of a hallway and stairs that led to the second floor. He took a few steps to the hallway. It led to the kitchen on his left. He saw the entrance and the door on the right. He’ll escape and go home.
Right by the door there was an old chair next to a dark wooden shoe rack. Looking down at his feet, he saw he only had socks on. He went back to the living room. Looking around the recliner, he found a pair of comfy tan sneakers. Were they his? But he doesn’t recall ever having seen them before. He put them on, and they fit. He headed back to the door, opened it, and stepped out.
A giant oak stood outside. Its branches reached all the way to the top floor of the house, almost knocking at the windows when prompted by the wind. There were cars parked on both sides, except for a small stretch in front where a red fire hydrant stood. He heard the door closing behind him and noticed a black mailbox on the wall to his right. Why was his last name printed in English on a white label? It was followed by “&” and another, unfamiliar name. He hesitated for a second, but went down the seven front steps to the sidewalk. He looked left and then right and saw an intersection at the end of the street. As he started walking toward it, he tried to focus and figure out how he ended up in a strange house in another world. All he wanted was to go home right away. He felt tired and cold. Before reaching the intersection, he saw a foreign-looking woman about his age. She had short white hair and wore a white shirt, and a gray coat and pants. She had a black plastic bag in her left hand. Her right hand was holding a leash as she tried to keep up with a tiny brown dog jumping ahead. He slowed down and asked her.
“Afwan. Mumkin tsa`dini?”
She looked surprised.
“Sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Why did she answer in English? He could have repeated the question in English, which he spoke fluently, but he hesitated. It was too late anyway, as she had already walked past him, smiling and following her dog in the opposite direction. He walked on, wondering how a nightmare could be so vivid. The row of houses he was passing by all looked the same: dark brown stone exterior, three floors with bay windows, and front steps going up to the door. Their numbers were in English. Every now and then, there were bikes chained to the iron fences along the sidewalk and huge trash bins. He noticed a street sign, also in English, showing prohibited parking times. Other signs had a broom with days and times as well.
When he reached the intersection, he looked up and read “St Marks Av” “5 Av,” clasped up high in white letters on two green signs. Two teenagers were approaching. He walked toward them and asked them in English,
“Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” one of them said.
“Where are we?”
The short one said, “We’re on Mars, pops!”
The other one laughed but elbowed him. “Shut up, dog!” and then addressed the old man respectfully: “This is Park Slope, sir. You need help getting somewhere?”
“Park Slope!” He’d never heard of such a place. “No, thank you.”
As he started walking again, he could hear the teenagers laughing. He won’t be asking anyone else and should just keep walking. Walking always helps him straighten his thoughts and it’ll help him find a way out of this labyrinth. If it is a nightmare, then he’ll walk to its end.
Everything and everyone looked unfamiliar. Street and shop signs, cars, people, their faces, and clothes. It exhausted him. He lowered his head, looking down at the ground to focus on his footsteps instead. The sun was still out, but he felt a dense fog creeping into his head. After minutes of looking at concrete, he heard a car come to a screeching stop, followed by honking. The furious driver kept his hands on the horn for a few seconds. When Sami looked up, he saw him complaining and perhaps cursing with his hands.
He apologized silently and rushed to cross the street to the sidewalk.
He kept walking, crestfallen. Some minutes later, he thought he heard Arabic. But it was a strange dialect he couldn’t identify. His heart leaped with hope. Is this where the nightmare ends? Looking up, he saw a short young man with black hair speaking on a cell phone pressed onto his left ear with a cigarette in his right hand. “Nahi, nahi,” he heard him say. “Mashteesh dhalheen.” He couldn’t make out the words, but something in them sounded familiar. The young man was standing in front of a store. Sami noticed the big sign above him: “Yemen Market,” and “Ahlan wa Sahlan” on another sign on the glass front with “Welcome!” right under it. He felt optimistic and stopped.
The young man was trying to end his phone call, and he noticed an old man staring at him. Sami’s hair and beard were gray, and his thick eyebrows arched over his tired walnut eyes.
“Shiklu bikhabbis bihdarah. I’ll call you tonight.”
As soon as he hung up, Sami greeted him in Arabic.
“Assalamu `laykum akhi.”
“Wa`alaykum assalam warahmatullah. Hayyabak.”
“Could you please help me?” “Yes. Sure?”
“I want to go to Baghdad.” The young man laughed.
“Baghdad? Oh! Baghdad is far, far away, hajj. We are in Brooklyn. You’d have to get on a plane and fly there.” He flicked his cigarette away with his index finger and asked:
“Where do you live?”
Sami mumbled: “Ha? Baghdad.”
“No, I mean here in Brooklyn?”
“Brooklyn? No, I don’t . . .”
The young man smiled and gazed into Sami’s eyes: “Ah! Looks like you’re lost.”
He pointed to the wooden bench outside the store. “Have a seat, please. God willing we’ll help you go home.” He extended his hand:
“My name is Salim Abdelrahman.” Pointing to the sign above the store, he added, “Ana mnil Yemen. What’s your name, sir?”
Sami shook his hand and answered hesitantly: “Sami.” “Ahlan wa sahlan, akh Sami. Can I offer you something?
Are you thirsty?”
“No, thanks.”
“No! You must have something. At least some water. Sit down, please!”
Before he could say no again, Salim put his hand on Sami’s shoulder and motioned for him to sit down. He went inside the store and came back out twenty seconds later, holding a cold bottle of Poland Spring water. He removed its cap and gave it to Sami.
“Tfadhdhal.”
Sami thanked him and held the ice-cold bottle. He took a good sip and wiped a few drops off his chin.
“Looks like you’re new here. When did you come from Iraq?”
“I don’t know.”
“OK. Do you know the address? Is there a number we can call?”
Sami searched his pockets. Nothing, not even a wallet or keys. He said nothing.
“OK. Have you been walking for a while? Which way did you come from? Do you remember the street name?”
Sami shook his head. All these questions started to irritate him. Salim put his right palm on his beard and combed it thrice as he thought. A voice called him from inside. He excused himself and went back into the store. Sami could hear him talking to the man, who chastised him for staying outside too long.
“This Iraqi man is lost and doesn’t know where he is. Just trying to help him.”
“We have work to do. Gotta finish restocking. Call the police!”
Sami didn’t understand their conversation, but the word “police” terrified him. He got up, leaving the water bottle on the bench. As he started walking, he heard the Yemenite calling him. “Ya `Ammi, wait up! Where are you going? Come back!” Sami sped up and took the first left.
He’ll keep walking and when he gets tired, he’ll wake up from this nightmare whose twists and turns were becoming more convoluted and bizarre. Gradually, the commotion of cars and the people’s voices and shapes dissolved and morphed into the colorful fog he walked through as he crossed street after street. Only the ground beneath was unaffected by the fog. It held on to shades of gray. He was quite tired but still had not woken up from the nightmare. He didn’t know how long he’d walked, nor how many streets he’d crossed. When he saw a green bench under a tall tree, he sat down.
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From Of Loss and Lavender by Sinan Antoon. Used with permission of the publisher, Other Press. Copyright © 2026 by Sinan Antoon.
