The Turtle of Oman

Aref Al-Amri stared at the Muscat International Airports security guards. They looked very serious in their brown uniforms, checking tickets, waving travelers forward. He was standing with his parents. His dad hadn’t stepped into the security line yet. Aref wished he had planned to give his dad a tiny turtle to carry in his pocket. A turtle might hide his head and pretend to be a stone when the plane took off, then stick his head out of the shell again when the plane was flying. His dad could feed him a piece of lettuce from his sandwich.

The airport lobby swirled with people wearing bright scarves, hats and turbans. They pushed baggage carts and dragged trunks and suitcases behind them. Who were they, where were they going, and why? Some people seemed anxious or worried, clumping together with family members, trying to keep track of belongings. Other looked bouncy and chatty. Aref’s own mom, standing next to him, attempted to answer her phone in the middle of all that noise. She resembled a tourist from Bahrain.

“Dad,” he said, “look how big their suitcases are.”

“Even bigger than yours.” Aref’s father shook his head. “People want to take everything with them. So loaded down!”

Aref’s father had checked a large blue suitcase. He’d been urging Aref to get rid of extra possessions for weeks now, so Aref wouldn’t try to pack too much. But Aref didn’t like letting go of his things. It was hard to decide. A baby shrieked. Aref shook his head. His mom covered her ear that wasn’t on the phone.

“See you soon! Take care of your mom and Sidi and Mish-Mish,” said his dad, rumpling Aref’s thick hair. “Don’t forget to keep speaking English, so you’ll be all warmed up. I’m glad you didn’t get a haircut. Good choice.”

Aref smiled. He didn’t even like letting go of his hair. Speaking English was easy, though-everyone speaks it as his American international school and he’d spoken it since he started talking, along with Arabic. It felt natural to speak both. His mom was an English professor at the university, so his family spoke more English than most people. His dad taught biology, so they like talking about science too. They’d all spoken mostly English at home since his parents had decided to go to the United States. These days, they mostly talked to other people in Arabic-their neighbors, and Sidi, people in restaurants and stores. And they dreamed in Arabic too.

Aref’s dad was wearing a crisp new yellow-and-white checkered shirt and a dark blue jacket with bulging pockets. “What’s in your pockets?” Aref asked, patting one. “They’re huge!”

“Well, my passport, I hope!” his dad said. “And my ticket and boarding passes and gum and mints and money and earplugs and my telephone…”

“Earplugs?” asked Aref.

“Well, you know…sometimes people talk too much,” his dad said. “Or I might be sitting next to that baby. What if he gets the hiccups after crying so hard? If the person next to me is old enough to speak, we’ll visit a bit before everybody starts to snore. Also, jet engines make a loud roar. I’ll need some good sleep before starting my new life. Ask mom to get you earplugs too.”

Aref’s mom handed his dad her telephone. “Maasalameh, shukrun, yallah, alif shukrun iktheer ya ammi,” he said loudly, over the din.