by Amal Awad
Praise for Amal Awad
and
COURTING SAMIRA
“The chick lit genre is great for challenging misconceptions, preconceptions and any other kind of false conception one may encounter. Anita Heiss did it with her Dreaming series for Indigenous women and Amal Awad has done it for Muslim women in Australia.”
– Mehal Krayem, former editor of Reflections magazine and PhD student looking at the depiction of Muslim women in Australian pop culture
“Courting Samira is like pulling up a chair with your best friend for a long chat. Awad is a welcome, fresh voice to the genre and stitches together a story that is both engaging while still being light, and pacey while still keeping the reader guessing. A fun, memorable debut novel from an author from whom I hope we'll hear much more.”
– Susan Carland, former host on SBS’ Salam Café and PhD student teaching in the School of Political and Social Inquiry at Monash University, with a special focus on Muslim women and Muslims in Australia
"It's actually really funny!"
- Catherine Holford, Amal's friend since childhood
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amal Awad is a Sydney-based writer and editor. A Palestinian-Australian Muslim, she graduated from university with an arts/law degree and practised very briefly as a lawyer before words beckoned and she moved into editing and journalism. Courting Samira is her first novel.
Further information about Amal and Courting Samira can be found at www.courtingsamira.com
You can also contact Amal via Facebook: www.facebook.com/courtingsamira
and Twitter: @amalmawad
AMAL AWAD
Copyright © 2011 Amal Awad
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover art by Christian Harimanow
Cover design by Angelika Wijasa
Author photo: Jeremy Ong
Formatting assistance by BWMBooks.com
ISBN- 978-0-646-56694-8
For my parents Samia and Mahmud Awad,
with love and gratitude
CONTENTS
Glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the author
Acknowledgements
GLOSSARY
As this story includes several Arabic words and phrases, a glossary has been included for the reader’s reference.
abu - Father of; Arabs generally address each other as “father of” or “mother of”
alhamdulillah - Praise Allah (used in relation to giving thanks)
assalamu alaykum - Peace be upon you (the standard Islamic greeting)
bismillah - In the name of God
dawah - Invitation to Islam; it’s the expression used to describe sharing Islam with others and inviting them to the religion
hadith - An oral tradition of the Prophet
halal - Permissible
haram - Forbidden
Im - Mother of; see ‘abu’ above
inshallah/insha’Allah - God willing
istikhara - The Islamic prayer for guidance
khayr inshallah/inshallah khayr - May there be good, God willing
khalee - Uncle
khaltee - Aunt
khaltou - Aunt (non relative)
mashallah/masha’Allah - Praise Allah
naseeb - Fate, lot in life
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 (e.g. Marriage, engagement, graduation, pregnancy)
ummi - Uncle
umou - Uncle (non relative)
umti - Aunt
wa’alaykum assalam - And unto you be peace (the standard response to the Islamic greeting)
yallah - Come on; let’s go
zakat - Almsgiving
“But when a young lady is to be a heroine,
the perverseness of forty surrounding families
cannot prevent her. Something must and will
happen to throw a hero in her way.”
—Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen
1
When I was in kindergarten, my end-of-year presentation was The Nutcracker Suite. Being slightly plump, rosy-cheeked, and all golden curls, my teacher chose me for one of the sugar plum fairies. No small honour, I assure you. There were playground fights over the sugar plum fairy roles.
My costume comprised my sports leotard (a vibrant fire-engine red) with silver tinsel sewn all over it, tights, and a wooden wand covered in aluminium foil with a homemade star at the top.
I sparkled. People talked about it for days. Although, it was mainly because a boy named Matty had run out mid-performance in tears. Still, Mum told me later that a little boy in the audience had pointed me out to his mother during my performance and said I was his favourite. Unfortunately we lacked the foresight to take down his contact details, but as it was unlikely he was Muslim, it was probably for the best.
That memory was playing on my mind as I sat in front of my latest suitor. His name was, not surprisingly, Mohammed. He wore a sour, bored expression on his face and didn’t seem interested in even glancing at me. Not even in a mildly curious “How can I look at her without making it obvious that I’m looking at her?” sort of way.
I couldn’t take my eyes off his hairstyle – gelled-back black hair, like a Manga character. I half expected him to leap from his seat and say things out of sync with his lips, all in an agonised voice.
I actually began hoping he would, to be honest. It would have made for an exciting turn of events. Certainly would have grabbed my attention.
I looked over at my mother who was engaged in conversation with Manga boy’s mother. Our fathers were also deeply engrossed in a discussion punctuated by occasional guffaws. Any moment they could be high-fiving, such was the frivolity.
Well. At least they were all having fun.
Now Manga boy turned his head slightly to the side, perching his cheekbone on his index finger. The sourness swelled to Zoolander proportions. Truth be told, I was starting to feel a little sorry for him. Clearly he was here against his will. He didn’t seem at all interested in assessing me beyond the first cursory glance when I entered the room an hour ago.
And not because he was the pious, shy type who was lowering his gaze. He was clearly the bored, simpering type who was thinking one month’s army training in the bush was preferable to a Saturday night doorknock appeal.
I realised ten minutes later that I’d been replaying a scene from Gladiator in my mind; the one where Maximus takes on the gladiators’ ring by himself then yells rather dramatically, “Are you not entertained?”
I loved that movie. But naturally this wasn’t the best of signs. I soon found myself imagining what it would be like to stand up on our coffee table, tea cups be damned, and say, “Oh dear suitor, is this not what you came for? Are you not entertained?”
Of course, that wouldn’t have gone down well, even if it did liven up proceedings.
Instead I directed my thoughts back to my stint as a sugar plum fairy. I remembered how the tinsel on my leotard crinkled throughout the performance. I was so shiny and new. My moment in the spotlight. I held so much promise. The future lay before me in all its glory. And, as it was kindy, boys had boy germs and girls were all feminine and precious.
You remember it. An introduction to tribalism. As with warring gangs, the playground observed strict boundaries: male versus female. West Side Story for tots, minus the tragic ending.
Although, I can’t say I’ve ever forgotten my first crush. Don’t be alarmed: he was Muslim. His name was Mohammed (for obvious reasons, a popular choice) and he broke my heart when he wouldn’t share his mortadella sandwich with me. I didn’t invite him to my birthday party by way of revenge. Seeing as Mum wouldn’t let me invite any boys, it wasn’t quite as sweet as I would have liked.
The point is there were very neat and logical divisions. Nobody breached those boundaries. The rules were strictly enforced (note earlier observation on respective boy/girl germs). Not at all like this. Giving up a perfectly nice Saturday evening to be ignored. I’d much prefer to waste a Wednesday night being ignored, thank you very much.
But moving on. I noticed that Manga boy’s hair had flopped a little to the side and I found myself studying it closely. It must be a science in itself really. Ensuring the right amount of gel is applied to achieve maximum density. Getting the flip just right. Allowing the hair to tumble as opposed to fall over your forehead.
I’d never seen it in real life before. The Manga look, that is. A feat of engineering.
Oh God, it had come to this. I’d had my share of dud suitors, but I had never, ever resorted to critiquing the man’s hairstyle. So long as it wasn’t a nod to Flock of Seagulls or Mr Kotter, the doorknocker’s hair was of little importance. Honestly. I didn’t pay much attention to that sort of thing. I generally knew what to expect by now, even if Manga boy did bring something new to the whole awkward set-up.
And, well, it’s not as though I was expecting him to be an Arab warrior type, who really were my preferred choice. I knew a suitor wasn’t going to burst through our house astride a magnificent horse, wielding a sword. It would be totally brilliant if one did though. I’d definitely consider him.
I got up from my seat without even bothering to excuse myself, since dancing an Irish jig wouldn’t have been likely to elicit a response at that stage. Not that I’d any experience in dancing Irish jigs, nor was I entirely sure what they looked like. But they seemed to be the general choice when wanting to grab attention.
I went into my room, intending to waste a few minutes before returning to, what I realised, was quite possibly the dullest prospect I had ever encountered – which was saying a lot. I fought the urge to slip in a Jamie Oliver DVD; I was yet to watch an episode on cooking with strawberries, which was sure to be a corker.
Some lip-biting and careful umming-and-ahhing ensued. Mum did always tell me to leave if I wasn’t interested but I never had the courage to do that. Let him leave, say I! That and it would always feel a bit rude. I hated to be rude.
But really, doorknock appeals were like paint-by-number with only minor variations on theme. Like, say, whether the suitor was home grown or FOB (fresh off the boat). There was always an assessor (mum/sister/relative). We always offered snacks and beverages. We stopped short of offering inflight entertainment.
At least there were chocolate biscuits, so the meetings weren’t total write-offs. And Mum always put out the nice Cadbury ones, not the plain Scotch Fingers she’d buy for us ordinarily.
Sitting on my bed, I checked my email. No new messages. I considered cyber-venting to my cousin Lara. She would understand. Single herself, and with no plans to get married, she was prepared for the possibility that, unable to outwit fate, she might end up hitched with some obnoxious kids (her words) before intended.
I decided that venting could wait. I sighed as I shut down my laptop, bracing myself to return to Mohammed’s hairdo and his engaging company. The agony. Although, I shouldn’t have been disappointed – I certainly wasn’t surprised.
My life seemed to be turning into a really bad episode of The Price is Right, though instead of a car and home appliances, I was the prize and the contestants were all potential suitors.
I could just imagine my parents standing on a stage, microphones in hand, smiling million dollar smiles, while those crazy lights flashed around them. And then the voiceover man (one of my uncles) booms out, “Suitor number 534, come on down!”, in Arabic and English. That trademark manufactured music would play as the suitor jumps his way down to the stage, everyone cheering and calling out in-jokes, and the voiceover man (well, my uncle) makes me sound like a bargain, which I guess I shouldn’t sniff at.
“Samira Abdel-Aziz is 27 years old! She has never been married, graduated with a Communications degree and currently works as an editorial assistant at Bridal Bazaar magazine! In her spare time, she likes to read books and watch movies. She is also proficient at burning salads.”
Let’s see, yes, I have a Communications degree. It was a continuing source of distress to my relatives that I had “studied” (and some of them actually used the air quotes) Communications at uni.
That would all be fine if it weren’t for the API (Arab Price Index). Case in point: My cousin Zahra had excelled by becoming a lawyer; I was the “dumb” one. Her stocks rocketed once she graduated, mine suffered a loss.
However, when I got the assistant’s role at the magazine, I enjoyed a minor bump in market value. My newfound success pleased my entire family, mainly because they thought it would help when it came to my own big day. Not sure how really. But when the words “Bridal Bazaar magazine” became my get out of jail free card, I learned to invoke it shamelessly as needed.
As fortune would have it, just as I’d come to terms with going back to the sitting room, my mobile phone rang. I had been intending to go right back to the sitting room and continue being ignored, God’s honest truth. But someone was calling me, and it would be rude not to answer.
Private caller. See? It could be important. The guests would just have to wait.
“Hello?”
“Samira.”
“Hi, Zahra.”
Damn. It. Fine. It definitely wasn’t important. My aforementioned cousin Zahra/lawyer beats Communications grad.
“How are you?” she said.
“Alhamdulillah, I’m good. And you?”
“Yeah, great. Are you busy?”
“Erm, sort of.”
“Really? It’s just that I know you’re usually at home on Saturday watching TV or whatever. If you’re busy I can call back another time.”
Oh God. She was so good at that. A Jedi master of put-downs. “Wow, black really does slim people down!” was one for the history books. “It’s just that you don’t really have any hobb
ies, so why would you be busy?” was another fave.
My family in Australia was actually quite small by Arab standards, meaning I still had a whole bunch of relatives I’d never met who lived in the Middle East (and Chicago). But in Sydney there was just one aunt on Mum’s side and two uncles on Dad’s.
Still, you should know that my family tree isn’t so much a tree as a forest or even a jungle, teeming with weird and wonderful species. And like all jungles, there are the predators, the prey and the pure.
My cousin Zahra, 26, lawyer in a top-tier firm, single and evil, fell squarely within the predator category.
Oops, sorry. We’ve only just met and it seems all you’ve heard from me so far are complaints, me whinging and making a fuss. I don’t mean to. I’m actually very easygoing and nice a lot of the time. But honestly, spend five minutes with Zahra and you’ll completely understand. It’s been like this since forever. Well, pre-school to be precise.
“That’s okay, Zahra,” I said, calmly. “What’s the problem?”
“You watch too much TV, Samira.”
“You’re calling to tell me I watch too much TV?”
“No. I’m just saying it now as it came up,” she replied, neglecting to add that she was the one who’d brought it up.
“Well, actually, I’d rather be watching TV right now, but unfortunately we have guests.”
“Another doorknock?”
“Yes,” I sighed. “And just for the record, I only watch a couple of shows.” Maybe five. Can’t remember exactly.
Zahra snorted.
