The Things We See in the Light

by Amal Awad

  In the cafe, I watch as a woman takes a photo of her plate – an impressive, glossy lime-coloured dessert with shards of chocolate perched on top. I want to feel that ease and confidence, too. Like this is my city again, and I know my way around it.

  Eight years ago, Sahar pursued her happily ever after when she married Khaled and followed him to Jordan, leaving behind her family, her friends and a thriving cake business. But married life didn’t go as planned and, haunted by secrets, Sahar has returned home to Sydney without telling her husband.

  With the help of her childhood friends, Sahar hits the reset button on her life. She takes a job at a local patisserie run by Maggie, a strong but kind manager who guides Sahar in sweets and life.

  But as she tentatively gets to know her colleagues, Sahar faces a whole new set of challenges. There’s Kat and Inez, who are determined that Sahar try new experiences. Then there’s Luke, a talented chocolatier and a bundle of contradictions.

  As Sahar embraces the new, she reinvents herself, trying things once forbidden to her. But just when she is finally starting to find her feet, her past finds its way back to her.

  Praise for The Things We See in the Light

  ‘A sparkling new voice in Australian fiction.’

  Nikki Gemmell

  ‘This book is delicious: sweet, warm and unexpected – the best kind of dessert, but not a guilty pleasure because the characters are so real and their struggles so human that I could not stop thinking about them after the last page.’

  Alice Pung

  ‘Awad brings her trademark intelligence and insight to this big-hearted story of a woman building a new life – a cross-cultural delight.’

  Toni Jordan

  ‘A woman’s journey of self-discovery, the power of enduring female friendships and an unexpected love story. The Things We See in the Light ticked all my boxes. Warm, wise, witty, intelligent and insightful, I loved everything about this story. A wonderful own-voices novel by one of Australia’s finest Arab writers.’

  Tess Woods

  ‘The Things We See in the Light is an emotional journey from heartbreak to wholeness. Awad’s new book brings the Australian Arab woman’s diaspora front and centre, shining a light on the power of friendship in personal healing and growth. A story woven from the threads of culture, self, community and friendship, examining the intersection of female power and vulnerability.’

  Sasha Wasley

  ‘Full of flavour, Amal Awad’s The Things We See in the Light is a warm, emotive and uplifting story. It’s about the power of friendship, facing fears, and being brave enough to find your true self. The perfect book to immerse yourself in, but be sure to keep both tissues and chocolates handy!’

  Kaneana May

  To Anastasia, Barbs, Cat and Jo – the original childhood crew and the best friends I could ask for

  Time doesn’t change, time reveals.

  – Arabic proverb

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Glossary

  home

  Chapter 1

  Jordan

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Jordan

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  immersion

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Jordan

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Jordan

  experience

  Chapter 13

  Jordan

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  connection

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  atonement

  Chapter 24

  Jordan

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  recovery

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Sahar’s Soundtrack

  Acknowledgements

  Book Club Questions

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Glossary

  As this story includes several Arabic words and phrases, a glossary has been included for the reader’s reference.

  abaya Full-length robe

  abu Father of; Arabs generally address each other as ‘father of’ or ‘mother of’

  akhi My brother

  alhamdulillah Praise Allah (used in relation to giving thanks)

  Allah yirhamo God rest his soul

  Allah yirhama God rest her soul

  ammi Uncle (but also used as respectful title for father-in-law)

  amti Aunt (but also used as respectful title for mother-in-law)

  assalamu

  alaykum wa

  rahmatullahi

  wabarakatuh May the peace, mercy and blessings of Allah be upon you (an Islamic greeting)

  ayb Inappropriate/shameful/rude

  dua Invocation to God

  habibti My darling, my sweetheart (feminine)

  halal Permissible

  haram Forbidden

  hayati My life

  im Mother of; see ‘abu’ above

  inti horra You are free (said to a female)

  istikhara Prayer for guidance

  keffiyeh Traditional cotton headscarf worn by Arabs; also a symbol of Palestinian nationalism

  mabrook Congratulations

  mahram Unmarriageable kin

  mashallah

  /masha’Allah Praise Allah

  naseeb fate/destiny

  nikah Islamic marriage ceremony

  o’balik May it be your turn next (said to someone as a wish for the same event/achievement to happen for them, e.g. marriage, engagement, graduation, pregnancy)

  oud A musky, essential oil fragrance drawn from the agar tree

  wajib An obligatory act; duty

  wudu Ablutions made before prayer

  yallah Come on; let’s go

  Chapter 1

  The ending of a relationship will always make you question the beginning.

  If every group has their archetypes – the cool one, the dreamer, the beauty – I’m the boring one. I have one talent: food. My best friend, Samira, is the imaginative dreamer; her cousin Lara is the life-loving wild one. While my friends had growing pains, I suffered a crushing social phobia. I wrapped it up in piety. But I was never racked with the same worries as my friends. You need to have desires and goals to be anxious about how your life’s turning out.

  These thoughts flood my mind as I approach the front gate of Lara’s apartment block under a blanket of light rain. Uncertainty flows through me, and I suddenly feel self-conscious about my unexpected arrival. If there’s anyone likely to appreciate spontaneity, it’s Lara, but my body is tense, my nerves tightened like a thousand tiny bows. Seeing her again feels bigger than the choice I made to return home.

  I drop my small piece of luggage onto the concrete, stained wet by the rain. There’s a flat number on the brick pillar and I squint at it in the dim light of a crescent moon. On my phone screen is an email Lara sent last year: a promise to send her a package from Jordan. I double-check the address, then look up again. It’s the right place.

  Before I can further question the wisdom of my arrival, I walk to the front door, pulsing with renewed intention. The apartment block looks weathered but not ancien
t. It’s only four storeys high. The glass door is framed by white wooden panels, the kind that were everywhere in the 1980s. When I discover that the intercom is busted, I’m filled with relief. I wipe my hands down the sides of my thighs, examine them briefly, then grip the thick silver doorknob like it’s a lifeline.

  It’s several flights up to Lara’s door. I knock once, then again a few seconds later. Eventually I hear murmurs, then the door swings open and I crane my neck upwards to meet the gaze of a man. He’s familiar, but it takes me a moment to place him. Pensive expression. Broad-shouldered and bearded.

  ‘Hakeem?’

  The man frowns, concerned. ‘Yes?’

  He doesn’t recognise me. We both look different. Hakeem still bears the markings of the stern, bearded recluse I once knew, but he now has a lighter sprinkling of facial hair, more hipster than ‘fundy’, as Lara used to call him.

  As for me, my headscarf used to fall nearly to my ankles – nothing like the gypsy-style scarf that crowns my head now, exposing my chin and leaving room for small gold earrings and the gold necklace I always wear.

  Hakeem and I barely used to interact, both well-versed in lowering our gazes. But now I search his face for clues, or comfort; confirmation, perhaps, that if he has changed, it’s not so ridiculous how much I have too.

  ‘I’m Sahar. Lara and Samira’s friend?’

  Recognition registers on Hakeem’s face just as Lara steps into the room behind him, jangling a few coins and asking about dinner. She does a double-take, then covers her mouth in alarm before rushing towards me.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  I want to cry – with relief and anger and shame all at once. I feel like a stranger in a foreign country, although this is my home. But even after everything that’s happened, one look at Lara and I feel safe. It’s the oddest feeling, and I can’t explain it at all.

  Hakeem commences a quiet exit just as dinner arrives.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘You don’t need to go.’ The sentiment isn’t reflected in my voice or my words. But Hakeem, a bit awkward and shy, leaves with a smile and a hand to the chest.

  Lara pushes me onto the sofa then follows him to the door. My face warms at the thought of the embrace they must be sharing, and I feel the weight of breaking them apart, even if it’s only for one evening.

  The door closes and Lara yells out, ‘Stay where you are.’ Then, ‘You must be starving,’ she continues from another room, and there’s the sound of kitchen clattering. I have missed her voice, her hybrid Australian-English accent.

  ‘Not really. I had something on the plane.’

  Crackers and cheese. I didn’t have the stomach for more.

  While I wait, I grow curious about how Lara lives. On the wall beside the hallway entrance is a painting in broad brushstrokes of an Arab woman – a red keffiyeh scarf sitting loosely around her shoulders – with voluminous black hair and piercing brown eyes. She stares into the distance, not looking at her audience. The main wall presents a startling portrait of Lara and her band onstage, spotlights spraying white light above them. Lara stands out with her wild mane of hair, tight black pants and sparkly blue top, her eyes closed as she sings into a microphone. Large, dangly earrings complete the look. Below the picture, resting on the floor, is a guitar case.

  Lara has grown up. Or perhaps, simply, into a better version of herself. She was never someone who needed a lot of things, only experiences, even if they could be emotionally explosive. That’s what she liked – to smash into things.

  My face flushes at my silent assessment of Lara as she plods back into the room carrying plates, cutlery and glasses.

  ‘You look so different,’ she says, beaming at me, then she indicates to the photograph of her onstage. ‘Samira took that; clever thing.’ She lays out a floral Mexican oil cloth – the kind our mothers always used to cover our dining tables. ‘Wog mat!’ She laughs. ‘I’m so grown up now. It’s disgusting.’

  Lara serves up a slice of pizza for me. ‘Vegetarian, don’t worry.’

  I smile gratefully. It’s been years since I’ve had to think about food as halal or not. In Jordan, everything was halal, and I long ago stopped worrying about it. ‘Anything is fine, thank you.’

  A short silence follows as we negotiate plates and napkins. Lara twists open the lid of a bottle of sparkling water and starts to pour.

  ‘So, how long do I have to wait before I ask what you’re doing here?’ she says. The lightness in her eyes fades as she hands me the glass of water.

  ‘A while longer.’

  ‘But you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll tell you everything, but not tonight. Is that OK?’

  Lara responds with a smile. ‘Of course.’ A few moments later, she ventures, ‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’ Her eyes are bright with the desire to share information.

  ‘How serious is it with Hakeem?’

  Lara pours herself a drink. ‘He’s my person, I guess.’

  ‘Is he your … engaged to you person?’

  ‘We’re somewhere between dating and engaged.’

  ‘Between?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  Lara seems uncomfortable with the truth of her connection with Hakeem, like she’s wearing the wrong-sized shirt and is puzzled that it doesn’t fit.

  ‘Are you disappointed that you fell for a Muslim?’ I ask.

  ‘No, just surprised.’

  We eat in silence for a moment, then Lara breaks out into a grin. ‘So, tell me: when did you get so trendy? I barely recognised you.’

  ‘Hardly trendy, Lara.’ I glance down to inspect my clothing. A knit top over black jeans. Fair enough. These clothes hug my body, rather than surround it. This current version of me is the sweet spot my husband, Khaled, favoured – conservative but not religious. Shorter headscarves, some jewellery, a dab of blush and a stroke of eyeliner.

  ‘At least we’ve moved past the hajjeh look,’ Lara says. ‘You’re wearing an actual top over jeans instead of those wraparound dresses that practically went down to your ankles. Lordy.’

  ‘No, please. Tell me what you really think.’

  ‘Frumplestiltskin.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ But a smile creeps across my face.

  ‘I think you would have worn an abaya everywhere, if you actually went out at all.’ Lara covers her mouth as she negotiates a bite of pizza. ‘But there’s something else, too.’

  ‘I’m a bit thinner,’ I say, reaching for a slice of pizza. ‘It makes me look taller.’

  I try to remember at what stage of my evolution she last saw me. Was my skin already darker from years of exposure to the unforgiving Middle Eastern sun? I’m far from ‘cherubic’, as Samira used to describe me. Now I’m considered gaunt, with more pronounced cheekbones.

  ‘Not that,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Your energy is different. And you’re still a shorty.’

  I’m starting to feel embarrassed, but Lara is oblivious to my burning cheeks. I take a bite of pizza and close my eyes, allowing my tastebuds to awaken.

  ‘You’re calmer,’ she says. ‘I mean, not that you were ever loud. But you were …’

  ‘Intense. I know.’

  ‘Especially about religious stuff.’

  I offer my agreement with a shrug.

  ‘Have you spoken to Samira?’ Lara leans closer. ‘And your brother! Does he know you’re here?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’ My whole body shifts as I tense up. I am reminded that this home I return to is incomplete. My parents are gone. My brother, Salim, is the one remaining link.

  Seeing Lara’s worry, I try to loosen my response. ‘Please, just give me a minute to settle in.’

  Lara’s expression turns swiftly to remorse. ‘Oh my God, of course. I’m sorry.’ She reaches over and gives my knee a squeeze.

  ‘It’s OK. It’s just, my husband doesn’t even know where I am yet.’

  Lara’s eyes widen. She openly processes her shock before pinning me with an enquiring
look. ‘Babe, I know you’re not ready to talk right now, but are you OK?’

  I nod, relieved when she doesn’t press me further.

  I left Sydney in search of a happily ever after, but I didn’t return home to find one. When I think about it, survival is what has always motivated me. I am a practical person, not a romantic one.

  It explains so much now.

  A couple of hours later, I wrestle with sleep beside Lara in her large bed. We’re sharing tonight; she insisted, and I agreed without argument. Lara embraced me like a favourite teddy bear as she fell easily into slumber. Half an hour later, I extricate myself, reassured by her steady breathing that she is fast asleep, perhaps already travelling in dreams.

  I try to get comfortable. The mattress is soft, but it’s not mine and my body rebels against the unfamiliar. The trance-like state that brought me home has faded, and the nerves are evolving into full-blown anxiety, plucking at my insides – a warning shot that something terrible is going to happen, even though the worst has already occurred.

  I haven’t checked my phone since leaving Jordan. Something for tomorrow, not tonight. I close my eyes again and again, and each time, his face appears. Tonight, I’m lucky. It’s not the ending but the beginning that comes to me in flashes.

  Before the memories plunge me into proper sorrow, I slow my breathing. I need to occupy myself without delay. I need work to busy my hands. I need to find a place to live, to create my own space.

  I need to forget.

  Jordan

  The first year

  I can’t get used to the heat. It’s thick and suffocating, wrapped around me but also moving through me. Sometimes, it feels like it’s burning my skin and I wonder if this is what hell would be like. Not even the cotton of my headscarf brings relief; I can only find that indoors, in the chilled embrace of rooms running the AC twenty-four seven.

  It’s odd how this is what makes me feel so far from home – not the strangers I must get to know, or the husband who studies me like he is also wondering how I landed here. Khaled is too good-looking for me, far too Arab, and I am too Muslim. I saw this quickly, but we’re still finding our rhythm, so I try not to be offended when he laughs at my conservatism or when he is casual about faith. We will get there, I tell myself, even as anxiety crowds my body.