Samira Surfs

A middle grade novel in verse about Samira, an eleven-year-old Rohingya refugee living in Cox's Bazar, Bangladesh, who finds strength and sisterhood in a local surf club for girls.

Samira thinks of her life as before and after: before the burning and violence in her village in Burma, when she and her best friend would play in the fields, and after, when her family was forced to flee. There's before the uncertain journey to Bangladesh by river, and after, when the river swallowed her nana and nani whole. And now, months after rebuilding a life in Bangladesh with her mama, baba, and brother, there's before Samira saw the Bengali surfer girls of Cox's Bazar, and after, when she decides she'll become one.

Samira Surfs, written by Rukhsanna Guidroz with illustrations by Fahmida Azim, is a tender novel in verse about a young Rohingya girl's journey from isolation and persecution to sisterhood, and from fear to power.An ALA RISE: A Feminist Book Project List 2022 selection
An NCTE Notable Poetry Book and Verse Novel of 2022 selection  
A Center for the Study of Multicultural Literature Best Books of 2021 selection  
A Society of Illustrators Original Art show 2021 selection
A Publishers Weekly Best Books of 2021 selection 
2022 NCSS-CBC Notable Social Studies Trade Books List


 
★ “A compelling novel that spotlights the history and contemporary circumstances of the Rohingya while tackling universal themes of friendship, belonging, and identity.” —School Library Journal, starred review
 
“[T]his novel shines a light on a subject rarely addressed in middle grade fiction.” —Booklist

“This novel is peopled with layered, fully formed characters who experience trauma and triumph in equal measure . . . A compassionate and well-rounded picture of refugee life.” —Kirkus Reviews Rukhsanna Guidroz is the author of Mina vs. the Monsoon and Leila in Saffron. She studied French at King's College, London, and political science at the Sorbonne, Paris, before living and working in Hong Kong as a journalist. After becoming a mother, Rukhsanna began her teaching career, working with students from kindergarten to high school. She now lives in Maui, Hawaii where she's taken up surfing. Learn more about her at www.rukhsannaguidroz.com.

Fahmida Azim is an illustrator, author, and tea drinker. She immigrated to the United States from Bangladesh as a child and grew up in northern Virginia, graduating with a BFA in Communication Arts from VCUarts. Her art frequently addresses the themes of identity, culture, and autonomy and has been featured in the New York Times, NPR, and Vice. Fahmida now lives and works in Seattle. Learn more about her at https://fahmida-azim.com/.

Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh

January 2012

 

Inside Our House

Our house, made of bamboo

chopped by Baba’s bare hands,

sits on a hill with other houses

just like ours.

The roof is crinkly blue plastic,

noisy in the wind,

hot in the afternoon sun.

Rain drips through its holes,

making dirt puddles

on the ground.

Inside, we have a single room

for the four of us.

Mama and Baba’s sleeping mat

covers one corner.

Close by, Mama’s silver pot

and Baba’s old spit cup,

stained red from his betel leaf.

Khaled stores a cricket bat

in his corner.

Next to it, on the floor, is

my brother’s blue notebook.

He tucked it in the waistband

of his longyi

and brought it all the way from

Burma.

What’s mine is a stool that holds

my special blanket,

Nani’s gift to baby me.

It’s torn and frayed,

but when I brush it against my skin

on cool winter nights,

me and Nani are together again,

cheek to cheek.

My stomach twists

when I think about

what little

made it here with us.

But things don’t make a home.

Family does,

even those still in Burma.

Nani and Nana do,

even though they are gone.

 

Eggs

Our eggs go plop-plop into water,

bubble and mist as they simmer

in Mama’s silver pot.

When they’re ready,

she spoons them out

and sets them in my bucket.

Our livelihood lies between

these brittle white shells.

My job is to sell

as many hard-boiled eggs as I can

to beachgoers

in Cox’s Bazar.

Each oval brings

money to my palm

and food

to the bellies

in my family.

 

Salt

Last night, Baba said,

“If you sell all your eggs, Samira,

we can buy extra salt to keep.”

He was squatting on the floor,

wrapping coconut, fennel, and nuts in betel leaf.

It’s his favorite treat.

A spiral of joy rose in my belly.

Salt crystals transform Mama’s dahl.

Beneath my crossed legs,

the prickly straw mat

suddenly felt smooth.

A bucket of eggs

turns into bundles of taka

turns into pinches of salt

turns into mouthfuls of joy.

I send out a wish

to sell all my eggs.

Come extra hungry to the beach, tourists!

 

Scoot Low

Every morning,

a narrow milky stream

of drip-drop pouring cha

tumbles from high

to greet me.

This is how Mama pours it.

Moments with her at dawn

bathe our day in sweetness.

Baba is the first to leave.

Shrimping is early work.

Next, Khaled,

to clean dishes and tables

for the café at Seaview Hotel.

Mama kisses me on the cheek.

“Stay safe, Samira,” she says.

I’m the last to go.

Low, low I scoot,

zigzagging 

down our sneaky steep hill.

My walk is filled with

sky, wrapped in pearly indigo

air, crisp and still,

and birds chirping

every morning.

 

Knowing

I step past the woods

to meet a wide stretch

of golden-gray sand.

The beach goes beyond where I can see.

Khaled says it’s the longest in the world!

Café doors creak open.

Outside, whining

packs of stray dogs

beg for food,

waiting for scraps

that miss the rubbish.

Fishermen throw out nets

for their daily catch.

The sea, sparkly in the morning sun,

breaks in little waves near the shore.

My eyes follow their slow, gentle peeling.

My ears tune in the gentle roar

of water tumbling on sand.

It sounds like water lapping at a boat,

like the one we boarded to cross the river

when we left Burma,

just me, Khaled, Mama, and Baba,

and Nani and Nana.

The others stayed behind:

Hasina Auntie, Jamal Uncle,

my cousin Shoba,

and my best friend, Sahara.

It’s been three months

since the river tossed our boat,

our chests sinking, stomachs plummeting.

Water can be dangerous

and beautiful at the same time.

For now, I stay as far away

as I can.