Thank You for Your Service 2001

Zainab was practicing cooking in a malefah, the traditional hijab of her husband’s family when the couscous sucked up more stock than anticipated. She tried to find a solution other than going to the store but none suited her. Couscous cooked in water was not just haram but the worst sin of Mediterranean cooking one could make.
She turned everything off, grabbed her keys and headed out. She grumbled past the people gearing up for the holidays for an elusive box of chicken stock. The aisles were packed and food scarce. She squeezed past the carts and started to shimmy up the shelves.
She made a few attempts while grumbling about being annoyingly short to no avail. She looked up at that top shelf and tried to envision it in her hands. Her Daddy taught her that technique when she couldn’t get off the ground in gym class.
The Marine’s daughter made it to looking her teacher in the eyes for her all time personal best on the rope climb. She hoped for better results while giving herself a pep talk in the crowded grocery store.
“Come on, Private. You’ve got this. The bombs are dropping in twenty. Your men are hungry. They demand and deserve flavorful couscous. Water will not do. Now get that stock!”
She squatted down and leapt into the air like she was Isaiah Thomas or something. Zainab was a born and bred Detroiter, she wouldn’t sully her mouth with a more popular Chicago Bulls name but she was also stereotypically White. She didn’t even clear the bottom shelf. She brushed herself off, cracked her neck and studied the scene for another attempt.
She was glad that nobody was watching her crazy, short, un athletic and fat ass failing miserably at grocery shopping. Failing miserably was inevitable but some days she just hoped for a small slice of normality. Allah says, “Ha!” though.
Zainab very inelegantly slid or fell from her greatest height yet. “I had my fingers on the box too. I was so close. Come on Allah. Help a bitch out.
You know that I can’t serve dry couscous and water is never acceptable under any circumstances. I don’t know what they said in whatever language but it wasn’t good. Neither was the couscous though. Can’t fault them for that.”
“No you can’t, ma’am,” was heard behind her. She was shocked and turned to confront the wise man. Her smile remained but tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn’t open her mouth out of fear that some sound that a shaytan (demon) might make would leap out.
“Are you okay, ma’am? Ma’am? What’s wrong, ma’am?”
She swooned slightly in the heat and caught herself on his outstretched arms. He tried very deliberately and carefully to support her without touching her unnecessarily. He understood what her clothes meant.
Her eyes started to clear as she returned to him. He began releasing his hold on her as she steadied herself, “I apologize, ma’am. I didn’t mean to touch you like that. It was a reflex. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
She smiled, “Thank you, Sir. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I was reaching for.” She stopped as he handed her the box of stock, “the stock. Thank you.” She looked upwards while shaking the carton in the air, “A few extra inches would’ve been helpful, Allah.”
She turned back to her hero, “At least Allah gave me you and the others. Thank you.”
“Your welcome, ma’am. Forgive me for my ignorance, ma’am but what others?” He bent over slightly to get his cap and a pendant became visible next to his dog tags. Her smile grew even bigger.
“I didn’t know this before,” she said while pointing to the Star of David on his chest. He instinctively began hiding it again while leaving his dog tags exposed. Sadness filled her heart as she understood. She wanted desperately to stop him from feeling ashamed.
“Shalom,” she said loudly and distinctly. He stopped buttoning his top and looked at her in shock. He tilted his head slightly wondering what he should say or if he heard her correctly.
She stuck out her hand while emphasizing her words, “Shalom, my brother. You are a Jew, no?”
“No. I mean, yes. I am Jewish. Shalom.” He continued to look at her in disbelief and amazement. She continued to explain hoping to ease his confusion.
“Shalom. I’m sorry for my behavior. I should’ve thanked you for your service but I don’t know where my head was. Well, on the stock, obviously.”
It’s okay. I’m just glad that you’re okay and you’re couscous is saved.
Shukran jazeelan. Err. Thank you very much. Sorry. Language.
When I was stationed in Germany, I accidentally talked to my men in Yiddish. They found it hysterical. I then called my Bubie, grandmother to tell her about it, in German. She thought that I was taken to Auschwitz by the US Army. It took my family an hour to reassure her that the US won and Hitler was dead.
Your poor Bubie. Does she still remind her bubula that you almost killed her?
Ugh. Yes. Every Hannakuh, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, etc. ad nauseum. And Bubula? Really?
Sorry. I know. I love my bubies but they can get annoying sometimes.
No kidding.
I meant service members for the others. My Daddy was a Marine in Vietnam.
He was about to speak but she wouldn’t allow it.
That was the reason for thanking Allah for you and the others, besides your service, naturally.
I have been sickly my entire life. Doctors didn’t know why and hoped that I’d grow out of it. My parents worried about me. They tried to teach me how to survive in a world that was openly hostile to me because of it. I certainly wasn’t going to make the Corps. I needed the Army’s assistance for the top shelf.
He chuckled slightly at her honesty.
When daddy was trying to recover from the war, mom had him take me to the VFW and elsewhere. She thought that daddy could use time with people who understood war and that a sickly girl would soften the tough men. She gave us so much more though. She gave us community and family when we all needed it the most.
I have never loved nor been loved more than by US Service Members. It doesn’t matter where you are in this world, that uniform means everything to so many of us. We know that when we are in danger overseas, it will be that uniform and flag that lets us know that we are home and safe. It is also where you will always find a touch of home in ours.
A service member is always welcome. My Couscous Tfaya is pretty good. I make a decent kosher, kielbasa and sauerkraut. My latkes are crap though. I learned from my mom instead of a Bubie. What can I say? I’m not perfect.
You may not be perfect, ma’am but you are unique and kind. If we meet again maybe we can swap latkes for couscous.
It would be an honor, Sir. Thank you for everything. Shalom.
Salam, Saida.
The two parted and Zainab rushed home to save the couscous. She at least had another adventure to tell her family and friends about. The couscous was saved by the United States Army no less. Not a bad day. Not a bad day at all.
Zainab and the others were delighted by her stories and her couscous. They longed to discover what new adventures she’d share over Couscous Tfaya and three frothy cups of tea.
Don’t worry. Someone else always makes the tea. She has zero coordination.
Until next time. Ma’salam. With Peace.

Men Sadiqatuk, Drsy.
From your friend, Darcy.