Courting Samira

by Amal Awad

  He nodded. “Have fun.”

  No sooner than five minutes of my entrance, I was once again a member of staff. Mum sent me to the kitchen to help. I imagined myself a Victorian-era servant who spent all of her time in the kitchen and laundry, and slept downstairs in a room the size of a shoebox. Although, missing were the servant uniforms, which was unfortunate, as they would have lent the scene a sense of authenticity.

  It was customary to assist and, to be completely honest, I didn’t mind terribly, as it saved me having to deal with people and their invasive enquiries about my life (my marital status), my goals (whether or not I’d consider an import without a visa) and queries as to whether I knew so-and-so over there by the door, who, didn’t you know, is studying to be an engineer?

  I really only minded this time because it was for Zahra.

  Zahra, who never made the effort for anyone but herself. Who never lifted a finger to help with dishes or preparation whenever she was over at our house for dinner.

  “Thank you again, habibti,” said aunt Shaimaa as she came into the kitchen after me. She placed her hand at the back of my head and praised Allah to my mother.

  “Your daughter is wonderful,” she said.

  My mother smiled at me. I smiled back, basking in the approval since really there weren’t enough occasions my mother could be proud of me.

  A moment later, Zahra swung her head through the doorway.

  “Mum, where’s the camera?”

  “You left it on the fridge.”

  Zahra practically stomped over to it in her stilettos, clearly put out by the effort required.

  “Why don’t you ask Samira to take some photos?” said aunt Shaimaa. “She always takes nice pictures.”

  Zahra looked amused. “It’s okay, thanks anyway. Najwa’s going to take the photos. She’s done a course.” With that and a smirk, Zahra swept out of the room.

  Fine by me, I thought, as I got to work on the sweets. Mum and aunt Shaimaa started chatting – domestic talk – so I tuned out immediately. I was carefully unwrapping the paper from the Styrofoam trays, attempting to arrange them nicely. When I was on to the second lot, I heard a male voice say, “Coming through!”

  I glanced up to see a young man in a blue suit carrying a large tray with a cake on it and wondered if he was the fiancé. At a peek, he didn’t seem like Zahra’s type. Then again, I couldn’t picture any man with a pulse as being her type, so I couldn’t be sure.

  “Thank you, Menem!” aunt Shaimaa gushed.

  The man put down the tray and I finally saw his face properly. My stomach plummeted a thousand feet and I nearly fell over.

  Oh. My. God.

  Team building. Menem from the same building or nearby office, I still didn’t know for sure! Menem was Zahra’s fiancé-to-be?!

  Our eyes met for a split second. I’m sure he recognised me, but he didn’t give anything away. With barely a nod, he smiled politely and walked out of the kitchen.

  “That’s Malek’s brother,” said aunt Shaimaa to Mum.

  Okay, so he wasn’t the fiancé. Still, how was this even possible? Didn’t this sort of thing only happen in movies? Am I asking too many questions?

  I continued with the sweets, feeling utterly taken aback and a little ill, although I wasn’t sure why. By now I couldn’t care less about making them presentable. I hurriedly finished arranging them and took two trays out to the sitting room.

  Although not really the shy type, I felt bashful all of a sudden, as though all eyes in the room were on me. I suppose I was also keenly aware that Menem was there somewhere, probably lurking in the shadows. Well, were there any shadows in which to lurk.

  God, but seeing him was a shock.

  After I’d set out the trays, my head lowered as much as I could reasonably manage without falling flat, I found a small empty space against the wall. I scanned the room for Sahar. She had said she was coming, even though Zahra had explained petulantly to me that it was only meant for family. It was only a few minutes before I felt someone pinch me. I jumped in fright.

  “Sahar! You came!”

  “Assalamu’alaykum!” We kissed each other on the cheeks and I grabbed her hands, relieved she didn’t change her mind.

  “How are you?” I asked, taking her hand.

  “Alhamdulillah. Sorry I’m late. My brother took his time.”

  Sahar would never have come alone, she was too shy. But her older brother Salim didn’t mind taking her places whenever she needed. I looked over and saw him chatting to Hakeem.

  Salim was as fundy as Sahar, quite possibly less so. I worried they’d be uncomfortable because this was turning out to be the kind of thing they wouldn’t attend. These guests looked thirsty for some heavy partying. One woman even had a scarf wrapped around her hips like a belly dancer.

  “I’m so sorry, Sahar, I had no idea it was going to be such a party,” I said, biting my lip.

  “It’s okay! We won’t be staying long anyway,” she replied. “At least there’s no dancing and all that,” she added, taking a quick look around. Obviously she hadn’t seen the belly dancer yet.

  “You look beautiful,” I told her. Sahar never wore make-up, but she always had a nice glow about her. She was wearing a stunning black abaya that she’d brought back from Jordan. She’d given me a similar one – it had diamantes across the top half, set in an elaborate pattern, and on the edges of the sleeves. And her white headscarf framed her cherubic face.

  Sahar blushed. “Don’t be silly,” she said.

  I squeezed her hand and we turned to assess the room. If Lara were here I’d be receiving flowing commentary on everything: what the other girls were wearing, levels of fugliness, whether there were any prospects among the males. Admittedly the comments would be highly amusing, but on the piety and goodness side of things, my cup would runneth over with Sahar beside me.

  I saw Menem across the room and I watched for a moment as he greeted some guests. He looked up and made eye contact with me again, this time a grin on his face. I nearly jumped again but I stood my ground as an odd sensation surged through me.

  Before I knew it, he was making his way towards me. By that point my heart was stationed somewhere in my throat.

  A moment later, Menem was standing in front of me and my heart was still bobbing around my tonsils.

  “You must think me very rude,” he said. He smiled more reservedly, but I could see a trace of the cheekiness he’d displayed at team building.

  “Not at all,” I said, trying my best to be nonchalant. Meanwhile, Sahar was standing next to me looking at the ground, her face a little red. I really needed to get her out of the house more. Not so that she could start making eye contact with boys, mind. More so that she wouldn’t turn beet red with anyone new she encountered.

  “I did notice you in the kitchen but I didn’t want to say anything,” said Menem.

  “That’s okay, I didn’t expect you to,” I assured him. Although a brief acknowledgement wouldn’t have hurt, I thought. Even a nod. A tiny wave. Well perhaps not a wave, but still.

  “Let me start again. I’m Menem. I’m the future groom’s brother,” he said, a bit flustered. He smiled as he pointed to everyone behind him by way of indicating who his brother was. “Obviously, I met you yesterday.”

  “Some coincidence,” I said, still in a bit of shock. Did he seem this dashing yesterday? No, probably not. He wasn’t wearing a suit yesterday.

  “Now I’ve been advised that Zahra has a cousin who works at a bridal magazine. That’s you, right?”

  “Um, yeah, that’s me,” I confirmed slowly.

  I looked over at Sahar. The poor thing must have been completely confused by now. Her head was still lowered and I could tell her eyes were wide. She was uncomfortable and formulating her escape, but I didn’t want her to leave me.

  “I’m going to get a drink,” she said.

  Crap. Sahar scrambled off, her head still lowered, the swirl of colours in the room contrasting wildly wit
h her black abaya and white headscarf.

  “Sorry,” said Menem, putting his hand to his chest. “I’m being very forward.”

  Well, if anything, he was being very forward yesterday, not today.

  Oh, the team building with the flying fox and abseiling, and oh how embarrassing. My cousin would be marrying into his family, for Pete’s sake. I mean, who could have seen that coming? Totally out of left field. And who is Pete anyway? Always wanted to know.

  “The truth is I’ve seen you in the city before,” said Menem.

  “Yes, I work at Bridal Bazaar magazine,” I said a little awkwardly. And dumbly. Wordsmith that I am. He knew that already.

  I looked towards the kitchen door, hoping that Sahar would remember her duties as a friend and come back to rescue me.

  “So, do you work at the magazine in anticipation of your own big day?” he joked, relaxing a little.

  Now. Either he was just trying to break the ice with a very blunt knife or this was his very unsubtle way of finding out if I was taken. Or, maybe it was both.

  I realised I still hadn’t replied a moment later. “Yes, that’s why I work there. I like to be prepared,” I said, mock seriously.

  “I bet you hear that a lot,” he replied, smiling.

  “Um, actually, you know I haven’t heard it for at least a week.” I nodded slowly, feeling much more at ease.

  “Right.” Menem took a sip of his drink and looked around. There appeared to be even more guests now.

  “It’s pretty big for an initial engagement, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes!” I said, a little too loudly. “I wasn’t expecting such a big turnout. You must have a big family.”

  “I did mention that I’m Lebanese, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Look, they’re just about to start,” said Menem when he saw his father signalling him. He acknowledged his father back then turned to me. “I’ll probably see you around? I owe you a coffee for that rude introduction.”

  He smiled at me as he backed away. Then he turned around and walked off to join his father.

  Oh gawd. What was that? Did he just- was he just asking me to have a coffee with him?

  “He just said he owes me a coffee,” I told Sahar in a rush when she finally crept back to me.

  Sahar looked immediately disgusted. “You’re not going to, of course. The nerve,” she said as though he’d suggested a raunchy night at a hotel.

  “Samira?” she prompted.

  “Hmm, what?”

  “You’re not going to have coffee with him, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Unless I was in a coffee shop and he happened to come in – that wouldn’t count, would it?

  Sahar looked at me with an earnest expression. “It’s with things like this that you have to be especially careful, Samira,” she said. Then she began reciting a short hadith by way of example, which I didn’t hear a word of, before shaking her head in annoyance.

  “Coffee with workmates isn’t the same,” she added, reading my next thought.

  “It is kind of,” I said, blandly.

  “No. Unless your workmates are all looking at you the way that guy just did.” I could tell Sahar was asking for Allah’s forgiveness on his behalf. Sure enough, a few seconds later, I heard her say, “Astaghfir’Allah.”

  I didn’t think it was that big a deal, but she may have had a point. Menem was obviously not the “strict” type, otherwise he would never have suggested we have coffee together. And so casually, too. Maybe he did this all the time. Approach girls at engagement parties, abruptly introduce (or reintroduce) himself then make up for it with a coffee. Was it his shtick?

  I wasn’t bothered about talking to boys, but I had my limits. Sahar knew about The Boy, but because I would feel so guilty whenever I so much as looked at her, I didn’t tell her about the few meetings I did have with him. They were fairly tame catch-ups, all during work days, that way I could justify it if someone I knew saw me and told my parents. My parents wouldn’t do anything; they would casually mention that such-and-such saw me at so-and-so, before offering me the explanation they gave to such-and-such as to why I was at so-and-so. All very exhausting. Not worth the effort.

  Admittedly, the limits were gradually getting stretched over the years, but there were still “don’t go there” zones. It all depended on the guy you were dealing with really. If he was uptight and fundy, you’d be sweet because he was most likely going to stick to the interwebs and occasional brief SMSes. Someone like Menem, however, was likely to be more outgoing and adventurous, which could complicate things.

  Seeing as I was hardly the essence of piety, I wasn’t going to judge Menem and think badly of him. Not yet anyway. There was usually plenty of time for disappointment when it came to this sort of thing, right? Besides, I didn’t even know him yet. We’d only spoken twice, on both occasions for less than ten minutes. Hardly enough time to assess his character! And he’d been very polite in any case.

  A sudden hush in the room broke my stream of thoughts. Malek’s father spoke a few words about his son in Arabic then said Malek would like to ask for Zahra’s hand in marriage. My uncle Hamza, Zahra’s father, responded with some kind words about Malek and said his daughter accepted Malek’s proposal of marriage.

  Following this, uncle Hamza recited the opening passage of the Quran. This was purely cultural, as Sahar whispered passionately in my ear, not to be mistaken for the Islamic marriage ceremony that was sometimes done months or even a year in advance of the actual wedding.

  This recitation is pretty much all that happened at these initial engagements. No fanfare, no fireworks display. And there were, of course, sweets at these parties. Lots and lots of sweets. And if you were very unlucky, a bountiful belly dancer with a scarf wrapped around her hips.

  Really, our engagement was the same as a Western one. The main difference was in the timing. Which all sounds simple enough, but explaining the intricacies to Cate proved tricky, particularly given there wasn’t a universal way of doing things amongst Muslims, let alone Arabs.

  “Is this is an Arabic thing or a Muslim thing?” she’d said on the bus on the way back from True Blue. And “What do you mean by an Islamic marriage?” and “Why can’t you just date Islamically?” and “But surely there is an Islamic way of dating?”

  I finally pulled out a piece of paper and drew a flow chart to clarify the courtship process. No easy task while riding in a bumpy old bus.

  I didn’t get further than that because Cate, about ready to faint, confiscated the pen from my hand and motioned for me to stop.

  “How…?” she said, listlessly.

  “Everyone’s a little different,” I said, wondering how I might simplify it more. “Some parents don’t even like their daughters to go out alone with the guy after the marriage ceremony until the actual wedding because it’s still so easy to call the whole thing off.”

  Lara always snorted at that.

  “And the problem is?” Cate’s eyes were wide, her mouth parted awkwardly.

  “Well, if it goes too far and they end things, people will gossip about them.”

  “But they’re married!”

  “Yes, but no wedding, so no … you know. I suppose, technically, they can, but it’s not really appropriate. They should have some sort of gathering first.”

  “But can they do anything?”

  “Oh, of course. They’d be intimate.”

  “You’ve lost me, Samira,” she said.

  “Okay, in simple terms? Two people meet, they like each other, they get engaged. Eventually they have an Islamic marriage ceremony then a wedding. The periods for each stage just vary. Some wait ages before getting engaged, others get engaged before they’ve even gotten to know each other. The real difference is we don’t date the way you would.”

  “Okay, but I still don’t get why some would do the marriage thing before,” Cate said, frowning.

  “Well, it’s like a
licence. They can be alone together, they’re not restricted like before. That’s kind of when we’d ‘date’.”

  I’d never thought much about it all, I’d always just seen engagements and marriages work this way. I wondered if I was confusing her more.

  “So after this marriage ceremony, would they at least kiss?” said Cate, her hand resting on the chair in front of her. We were bobbing up and down, the bus rattling along the freeway.

  “Oh, sure they would,” I said. “And remember, it’s different for everyone. Some people disregard all of this and just date and do whatever. You know, because they’re not strict, as such.”

  Cate slowly nodded her head, but she looked a little traumatised, as though she’d just witnessed a natural disaster.

  “Your cousin, she met her fiancé in one of these doorknocks?”

  “No, she met him another way. He still had to make an official visit though.”

  I honestly never realised how complex Arab Muslim courtship could be.

  As Zahra and Malek exchanged rings, some of the older women let loose with the zaghroota – ululating, Arab style. The older women moved their tongues frantically, making a high-pitched noise, their hands positioned above their mouths, while one woman sang out poetic good wishes for the couple.

  The neighbours would call the police if they kept up for much longer.

  A few people clapped and it dawned on me that we really were all grown-ups now. I watched as Zahra smiled at Malek, her hand against her chest, the rock on her finger blinding me from across the room. Shortly after, her girlfriends converged on her to gush over the ring. They were all size 8s and dressed in black. I had difficulty telling them apart.

  Menem walked over to his brother and hugged him. He looked and seemed younger than Malek, who as far as I could recall was in his early 30s. Malek, like Menem, was pleasant looking and clean cut. Neither were Arab warrior types. Not that it mattered, of course. Honestly, it was just an observation.

  More significantly, both seemed confident and easygoing. Neither appeared burdened with complexes or concerns. In other words, refreshingly different to most of the males I knew.