Rebels by Accident

by Patricia Dunn

  “Who’s Ahmed?” Sittu asks.

  “A man we met on the plane.”

  “So you talk to strange men on planes?”

  “No. I mean, yes,” I say. “But he helped us through customs.”

  “Girls, it upsets me so much that all the conversations about Muslim women are always focused on what we wear and don’t wear, and here I am guilty of doing the same. What’s important is that you understand no one should be forced to wear anything against her will. But don’t make the mistake I did”—did Sittu just say she made a mistake?—“and assume you know a person because of how she looks on the outside.” Sittu brushes the back of her hand against Deanna’s right cheek. “Many great women struggle against oppression of all kinds, some wearing a burka, while others wear jeans and T-shirts.”

  Now Sittu touches my cheek. “Habibti, you’re warm. Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Our ride, finally.” Sittu drops her hand and points to the street.

  I squint at a blue Herbie the Love Bug pulling up in front of the building.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Sittu pulls a pair of sunglasses even cooler than Deanna’s out of her monster bag.

  “These are for you.”

  “Really? Shukran,” I say.

  “I told you—no thanking family.” Sittu smiles at me—just me. It makes me almost look forward to seeing the pyramids and maybe even spending time with Sittu.

  “Mariam.” Deanna pinches my elbow. “Do you see who it is?” she whispers through her teeth.

  I put on the sunglasses so I can get a better look at our driver, then I take them off to make sure it’s not some mirage. There is Hassan.

  chapter

  ELEVEN

  “Sabah al-khair!” Hassan calls to us from the street. He sounds so happy. His voice is sweet. We walk over to him.

  “Madam,” he says to Sittu, “did you see on Facebook? The call for people to gather?”

  “Not today, Hassan.”

  “Call? Gather?” I ask. “For what?”

  “Tunisia has inspired the nation,” Hassan answers. “People are calling for all to protest the repression and poverty and corrupt—”

  “Not now.” Sittu raises her voice. “Tomorrow we fight for Egypt, but today we celebrate my granddaughters’ trip to their homeland.” Sittu puts her arms around Deanna and me, squeezing us close to her.

  “Fight?” I ask.

  “Well, a figure of speech,” Sittu says. “Yalla, Hassan, the door.”

  “Of course, madam. Please excuse me,” Hassan says. “My ladies, your chariot awaits.” He opens the back passenger door of his car.

  “Out of any other mouth, that would’ve sounded dorky,” Deanna whispers. “But from his…” She shakes her shoulders. “Shivers right up my spine.”

  She’s got it bad. Sure, he’s cute; that one dimple makes him look absolutely adorable. But I don’t trust him. Baba was clear we should be careful about guys using us because we’re American. I can’t believe Deanna is falling so fast. Deanna’s supposed to be the smart one when it comes to life stuff.

  Sittu whispers back, “I see someone is crushing on someone here.”

  Deanna’s so focused on Hassan I don’t think she even heard Sittu. “Sittu? Crushing?” I say.

  “I may be old, but I’m not outdated.”

  “Sabah al-khair,” Deanna says, bending her head as she gets into the backseat. I bend to get in too, but Sittu pulls me back.

  “Habibti,” she says, “I don’t like the front seat unless I’m driving. You sit up front with Hassan.”

  “Really?” I can’t believe I finally get to sit up front. My mom still makes me sit in the back because she thinks it is safer. Deanna sticks her head out the door. “I don’t mind sitting up front.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Sittu says. “But you can keep me company in back.”

  “I just know Mariam’s parents don’t like for her to sit in front,” Deanna says.

  Wait a second! Best friends aren’t supposed to sell you out for the front seat, even if they are crushing on the driver.

  “Well, Deanna, I’m in charge here. Mariam, yalla.”

  “Sure,” I say, with a long look at Sittu. I wonder what she’s up to. Maybe she’d rather sit in the back with Deanna, who knows so much more about everything.

  “After you.” Hassan opens the door for me.

  “Shukran,” I say.

  “Afwan,” he says as he closes it behind me.

  When he gets into the car, the top of his head almost touches the ceiling.

  “Ready?” Hassan asks.

  “Ready,” I say.

  “Ready,” Sittu says.

  Deanna doesn’t say anything. But I don’t have to be in her head to know exactly what she’s thinking. She wishes she were in my seat with nothing but the stick shift between her and Hassan. This is probably the first time in my life anyone has ever wanted to trade places with me. It feels good.

  Hassan shifts the car into gear and his hand brushes against my thigh. I understand what Deanna meant when she talked about shivers going up her spine. I wonder if he did that on purpose. I look down at his hand. No. There’s no way he would like me over Deanna.

  “Do you drive?” He catches me looking at his hand.

  “No.” I move my leg away.

  “I’ll teach you how to drive then.” Hassan looks into his side mirror and changes lanes.

  Deanna leans into the front seat. “I’d love to learn too.”

  “No driving lessons today.” Sittu pulls Deanna back into her seat.

  Even with the heat blasting, I can hear Deanna sigh.

  “Music okay?” Hassan looks into his rearview mirror.

  “Of course,” Sittu says.

  “Wonderful,” Deanna says.

  “Mariam?” He looks at me.

  “Umm Kulthum?” I say, not in the mood for classic Egyptian.

  “You know Umm Kulthum?”

  “A little,” I say.

  “Well, she’s wonderful. But do you mind if I play something else?”

  “Play whatever you want,” I say.

  Hassan slides a CD into the player.

  “No cassette?”

  “Egypt may not be as modern as America, but we have a few of the new inventions.” He hits the play button. “The quality isn’t so good. A friend made it for me.”

  “I took tabla lessons for two years, but I couldn’t drum as fast as this guy if I took lessons for twenty years. He’s incredible,” Deanna says.

  “It’s called a darbuka. The artist’s name is Simona Abdallah.”

  “Simona?! A woman darbuka player?” Sittu pops her head into the front seat again.

  “Wallah,” Hassan says. “She’s Palestinian and grew up in Denmark. She lives in San Francisco. Her first solo album is coming out in the fall.”

  “Amazing,” Sittu remarks.

  “Madam, you like it?” Hassan turns his head to her.

  “A woman professionally playing the darbuka? Wonderful!” Sittu taps the top of his head. “Eyes on the road.”

  “Why is that so rare?” I ask Hassan.

  Hassan shrugs. “The darbuka is usually played by men.”

  “She’s incredible,” I say.

  “She taught herself when she was fifteen.” My age.

  “She didn’t have it easy, but she didn’t give up either,” he says. “And guess who her favorite singer is?”

  “Umm Kulthum,” I say, not sure how I know, but I just do.

  “How’d you guess?” He turns to me and smiles. I can feel the back of my neck turn red. At least it’s not my face that gets red when I’m embarrassed.

  “The road,” Sittu reminds him.

  Hassan quickly turns his
eyes back to the road.

  “Nice beat,” Deanna says. “But do you have any Amr Diab?”

  “You know Amr Diab?” Hassan sounds shocked. He adjusts the rearview mirror, and I catch Deanna shifting to see him in it.

  “Of course,” Deanna says. “I love all Middle Eastern music.”

  Hassan takes a different CD from the glove compartment and pops it in. Deanna begins to sing along. Must be Amr Diab.

  “You have a wonderful voice,” Hassan says. “You know Arabic?”

  “Shway shway.”

  “She is modest,” Sittu says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “I don’t know all the words,” Deanna says.

  “Teach my heart to love. Live with me in my dreams…”

  “Your voice is pretty nice too,” Deanna says, flirting, ignoring Baba’s warning.

  I know if a guy were into me, I wouldn’t want him to sing some totally obvious love song. It would be something more subtle, like… Well, I don’t know exactly, but I know he would choose something special. A song just for me.

  • • •

  It’s bad enough that for most of the drive out to Giza, Deanna and Hassan sing like they’ve been a duet for years, but when Sittu joins in, I want to yell, “Stop the car!” so I can get out and walk. I keep my face turned toward the Egyptian countryside flying by my window, pretending to be fascinated.

  Deanna finally stops singing. “Look! The pyramids.” She rolls down her window, letting all the hot air out and the cold air in.

  “Welcome to the Pyramid of Khufu,” Hassan says, pulling into the parking area.

  I don’t turn from my window. What’s the big deal? Three big triangles. So what?

  “They’re more than four thousand years old,” Deanna says with awe. “They’re one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the only one that still exists.”

  OMG, she’s like a guidebook now.

  “This is the biggest of all the pyramids in Egypt,” Hassan says as we get out of the car.

  “There are more than these?”

  I give Deanna a look she doesn’t notice. Why is she playing dumb? She knows more facts about pyramids than the ancient Egyptians who built the stupid things.

  “Almost a hundred,” Hassan says.

  I walk behind Deanna and Hassan as they exchange pyramid trivia, even more grateful for the sunglasses Sittu gave me—no one can see my eyes rolling.

  “So, habibti, what do you think?” Sittu locks her arm through mine.

  “About what?” I ask, distracted by the banter in front of us.

  “The Great Pyramid.” Sittu tilts my chin toward the sky.

  I have to stop walking and just stare. The pyramids really are the most awesome sight I’ve ever seen.

  Every teacher who ever went to Egypt on vacation always insisted on showing me their pyramid shots. Like they wanted to show the little Egyptian girl they understood her, prove that they had traveled to her homeland. I used to think they could’ve saved the airfare and walked five blocks from the school if they really wanted to see where I’m from. But now, looking up at this spectacle, I’m completely stunned. I wonder if those teachers just wanted to share their experience with someone they thought would get it, someone who’d seen them, and would know how no photograph or video could do it justice.

  “Sittu, I don’t remember a lot about Egypt when I was here as a little kid, but I can’t believe I would have forgotten this.”

  “Giddu wanted to take you, but your baba never wanted to go. He used to joke if you’ve seen one pyramid, you’ve seen them all. And your mother didn’t feel comfortable letting you go without your baba going.”

  “You didn’t want to go?”

  “I had seen these pyramids so many times in my life, on so many school trips, I had no desire to push the issue. Besides, I thought you’d appreciate the experience more when you were older.”

  “The pyramid’s a lot taller than the pictures make it look.”

  “One hundred and thirty-nine meters, or, as you would say in America, about four hundred and fifty feet,” Hassan says, joining our conversation. “It used to be the tallest structure in the world until the French built the Eiffel Tower.”

  “Actually, the spire of Lincoln Cathedral was built first,” I say, surprised at how annoyed I sound.

  “Oh, well, I stand corrected.”

  Deanna and Sittu lift up their sunglasses and look at me.

  I’m about to apologize when Hassan says, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get tickets.”

  “You know, Mar, I’ve been to DC, and no way is it that tall,” Deanna says.

  “That’s the Lincoln Memorial,” I say, still irritated, but at Deanna for defending Hassan.

  “Well, it must be nice to know so much,” Sittu says.

  I look at Sittu and Deanna, then run to catch up with Hassan.

  He waits for me to speak.

  “Thank—Shukran, I mean, for driving us here today. This really is pretty amazing.”

  “Afwan.” He nods at me, and it’s clear he knows I’m apologizing. That cute dimple, right there in the middle of his chin, makes me think he forgives me. Maybe he’s not such a bad guy after all.

  chapter

  TWELVE

  We meet Hassan at the base of the pyramid.

  “Ready to go inside?” he asks.

  “If you don’t mind, my darlings,” Sittu says, sitting down on one of the pyramid’s base stones, “I will wait for you here. I’ve made this climb more times than I care to count.”

  “So we have to climb up through that entrance?” I ask, pointing to a hole in the side of the pyramid.

  “Yes,” Hassan says.

  “Is it a long climb?”

  “It’s a bit steep,” Hassan says.

  “Oh.” I don’t like heights.

  “Would you mind watching my pack?” Deanna asks, pulling her cell phone from her backpack before handing it over.

  “You want to call the mummies?” Sittu asks.

  “It has a camera too. This way I can take photos without looking like a nimrod tourist.”

  “Nimrod?” Sittu laughs. “Noah’s great-grandson?”

  “If someone calls you a nimrod, they’re calling you an idiot,” Deanna explains.

  “And you, habibti?” Sittu turns to me. “You don’t want to look like a nimrod either?”

  I’m used to it, I think. “I don’t like taking pictures.”

  “Good. Better to live in the moment than to snap at it like a turtle,” Sittu says, just as Deanna clicks her phone at Sittu’s face.

  Deanna shows Sittu the screen. “This is a great picture of you.”

  “You can make a call and take a photo?” Sittu asks.

  “And upload it to the Internet if I actually had a connection here.” Deanna’s obviously not getting that Sittu’s playing with us. Sittu surfs the Internet, but she doesn’t know phones have cameras inside them? I don’t think so.

  “Technology is too crazy for me, but I will be very happy when they make a phone that can cook.”

  Deanna laughs as she takes her first step up. “Can you believe one of these stones weighs almost two tons?” She grabs one of the huge stones to help her climb up onto the next. “It took over two million of them to make this thing.”

  “Shall we?” Hassan says.

  “You know, I think I’ll stay and keep you company, Sittu.” I don’t even like climbing a stepladder.

  “Yalla,” Deanna calls down to us. She’s halfway to the entrance already. Several tourists with cameras banging against their tank tops turn to look at her. She’s right: they do look like nimrods.

  “You’d better get up there before Deanna cracks the stone with her yelling,” Sittu laughs.

  “I’m a little tired,�
� I say. “Maybe another time.”

  “Are you sure?” Hassan asks.

  “Very,” I say.

  “She’s going. Stand up and go with Hassan.”

  “But, Sittu…”

  “Stand up,” she says.

  Even though I don’t want to, I follow directions.

  She grabs my hand. “You listen to me: never, ever let fear stop you from living life. Trust me,” she says. “Every fear you don’t face bites your ass in the end.” She looks over at Hassan. “Excuse my language.”

  “No problem,” Hassan says.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “I didn’t say I was afraid.”

  “You’re not?”

  Before I have a chance to answer, Sittu says, “Hassan, take her up.”

  Hassan and I climb to where Deanna is waiting. I keep my eyes focused on his cute butt, so I don’t think about looking down.

  “Hey, you okay?” she asks, and I’m sure she sees I’m trying very hard not to cry.

  “What happened?” Deanna looks at Hassan.

  “I don’t want to do this,” I say, tears escaping down my face. Sittu pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to me, and this brings the tears in full force.

  “Why are you crying?” Deanna asks, lifting up my sunglasses.

  “Her sittu insists she climb to the top with us,” Hassan says.

  “You’re afraid?” Deanna asks.

  I nod.

  “Then you don’t have to come with us.” Deanna puts her arm around my shoulder. “I’ll talk to Sittu.”

  “You have a lot to learn about this culture,” Hassan says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Now I’m surprised by how irritated Deanna sounds.

  “My intention wasn’t to offend, but Mariam needs to understand her sittu acts this way because she loves her.”

  “Loves me?” I say.

  Hassan takes the handkerchief from my hand. “Trust me.” He wipes my cheeks. “She loves you.”

  “Well, maybe she should love me less… Shukran,” I say, taking back the handkerchief.

  “Listen, Mariam,” Hassan says, “I know it’s hard for you to understand. You may live a world away, but you mean the world to your grandmother.”