And Alison realized: Yes, love.
It wasn’t long before he mentioned marriage—not as part of a romantic proposal the way a girl would expect, but rather as an inevitable progression of their relationship: sex, then love, then marriage. “Why don’t we just get married?” he had asked.
Out of all the smart and beautiful girls on campus, he had picked her. She gazed at him driving for another moment, then turned toward the window. She was startled by her reflection—her head covered in the scarf. She had forgotten she was masquerading as a Muslim woman. A pang of concern rose up: what if someone she knew saw her? What would her American classmates say? The unspoken attitude in her circle was that you studied Islam and Muslims, you didn’t become them.
Before Khalid, her social life had revolved around those friends. But from the day Alison started seeing him, she’d began to drift away, meeting only occasionally to discuss assignments and the war in Iraq. Who had time to socialize? Dating Khalid was all-consuming. He gave her purpose and energy, bringing to life everything she was studying. She cultivated new insider views, and her world immediately expanded. Before him, she had moved in a tiny orbit, attending only to the motions of study, work, and home.
She glanced at the traffic on the freeway. It was a Sunday morning, not many cars on the road. No one would recognize her in hijab—she barely recognized herself.
“You told your parents, didn’t you?” Khalid asked.
“Don’t worry, babe.”
“So, you told them?”
“Like I’m gonna ruin our wedding day.”
“You said you were going to call them.”
“I wanted to call them, I really did.” Of course, Alison was simply delaying the inevitable. No amount of justifying could change the facts about Khalid: the wrong faith, the wrong class, the wrong background. A Palestinian refugee, and Muslim, too.
“Now they’ll be upset for sure,” he said. “I should’ve called them myself.”
“That’s all I need—my mother freaking out.” Alison’s head felt pinched by the scarf.
He looked at her sideways. “Your parents, they’ll never respect me.”
“I can’t tell them over the phone anyway.” She tried to sound positive. “It’s better if they meet you in person. When they come out from Chicago, we’ll tell them. Besides, for my parents, it’s the big wedding that counts.”
Khalid drove on without speaking, his jaw set.
Were they arguing? They rarely argued, not even about politics. She caressed his hand, but he remained quiet.
As the scenery changed from the boats on Lake Union to the urban sprawl of north Seattle, Alison began picturing herself walking into the mosque, passing through the elaborate entrance. “So, you made an appointment?”
“Yeah, I saw the imam and gave him the papers.” Khalid took the exit off the freeway. “And I invited my cousins.”
She blinked. “Ibrahim and Salim?”
“We need witnesses. Two male witnesses.”
“Why those two?” She imagined them making fun of her scarf. “You should’ve told me.”
“I’m telling you now,” Khalid said as he pulled into the parking lot. “We need to wait for them.”
Alison stared out the car window and up the brick building, its dome and minaret rising into the gray sky. How horrified her mother would be if she knew her youngest child was getting married in a mosque. Alison’s older sisters had married men named Alex and Stephen and had obediently declared their wedding vows in their mother’s church.
Alison flipped down the sun visor and looked in the small mirror. The scarf made her face appear angular and gaunt.
Khalid stroked her arm. “You get to see the mosque.” Then he looked at her more closely. “Your face is white.”
“It’s the scarf. Makes me look washed out.”
“You look beautiful.”
Alison touched the scarf. “Please don’t get used to it.” She heard voices from outside and turned to see Ibrahim and Salim walking toward them, putting out cigarettes. Khalid got out of the car first, and the men exchanged their Arabic hellos. At last, she stepped into the wet parking lot, and Ibrahim greeted her.
“Today, it’s your big day.”
She braced for one of them to make a joke about her scarf, but they didn’t.
As the group moved toward the mosque, Khalid pointed to a side door. “You go in that entrance.”
Alison stopped and stared at the plain white door, dirty with scuff marks. The women’s entrance. Of course. “How will I know where to go?”
“Don’t worry.” He put a hand on the small of her back. “I can’t get married without you.” His touch was warm and reassuring. Then he pulled away, smiled, and waved. With his cousins, he disappeared around the corner without looking back.
Alone in the parking lot, she paused. The men would be opening the heavy doors of the main entrance and strolling under the calligraphy inscription. Feeling a slight wave of nausea, she reached for the doorknob. Inside, cheap plastic sandals were scattered about. She removed her strappy high heels and slipped them into the low shelves. To her right was a stairwell, where Khalid stood at the top.
She went up to him and followed him down a hallway and into a room lined with books. A man sitting at the table stood and nodded to Khalid. “As-salaam alaikum.” Peace be upon you. To Alison, he said, “I’m Daud, an imam for this masjid.” He wore a button-down shirt and little wire frame glasses, his beard closely trimmed. Alison extended her hand. He made a slight bow and touched his chest.
“He doesn’t shake women’s hands,” Khalid whispered.
“I just forgot,” she whispered back.
The imam sat and gestured for them to sit across from him. Ibrahim and Salim were already sitting off to the side. Beside them, a gray-haired man sat clutching a string of prayer beads.
“This is Mr. Barakat, an extra witness for today,” the imam said.
Alison nodded to the man; then her gaze turned to the papers on the table. She recognized their marriage license and the application she had hastily signed the week before.
The imam looked up. “So, you’re not Muslim?”
“I’m not.” She crossed and uncrossed her arms.
“I see that you’re Christian,” he said, reading off the form.
Alison’s face grew warm. “I was raised Greek Orthodox.” What else could she say? The truth was the last time she had stepped into the church was for her sister’s wedding. Her sharpest memories of church were the corrections dished out by her Grandma Helen: Sit still. Be quiet. To this day, whenever Grandma Helen was around, Alison held her breath, waiting for a scolding.
Khalid leaned in. “Actually, her grandfather was Muslim.”
“Masha’Allah,” the imam replied. What God wills. He looked at Alison.
“My father’s father,” she said, growing more flushed, though this fact that Khalid celebrated was a detail that no one in her family spoke of. Her grandfather, who had arrived from Syria to Chicago in 1945, changed his first name from Issam to Sam, and his last name from Thayer to Taylor. He’d married a Christian woman and hardly practiced Islam at all. It wasn’t until he was elderly, Alison still in grade school, that proof of his faith had surfaced. It appeared on his bedside table: a Qur’an, its sheer pages lined with Arabic script—so alien and mysterious. Just like her grandfather.
“Have you had any premarital counseling?” The imam spoke with an American accent.
“Do we need it?” Khalid asked.
“It’s not required,” the imam said. “Though I’d like you to know what you’re getting into.”
Alison had a good idea. She had studied the language, culture, history, and religion. Between her studies and her family background, she knew more than most American girls marrying Muslim guys—that was for sure. Then she noticed the imam tilt his head and gaze at Khalid like a concerned parent. It was Khalid, not her, the imam was worried about.
“How long have y
ou known each other?” the imam asked.
“Almost a year,” Alison said. “We met at the U, actually, at a coffee shop.”
The imam held up his hand, signaling that it was not part of his job to hear these details. He looked at her. “Do you plan to work?”
“After I get my bachelor’s degree, I’d also like to get my master’s. I’ll work after that.” She felt her tension dissolve as she talked about her plans.
“You two have discussed this?” The imam looked at Khalid.
“It’s okay with me.”
“What about children?” The imam glanced down at his notes and back up again.
“Inshallah,” Khalid answered.
“If you have children, who’ll take care of them when she’s working?”
“She will,” Khalid said.
The imam turned to Alison.
“It’s hard to say.” She shifted in her seat.
At this, Khalid shot her a look.
“It’s kinda far off,” she said. “God only knows, right?” They couldn’t argue with that.
“But what are your intentions?” the imam asked pointedly.
Alison kept her gaze away from Khalid; she could already imagine the look of irritation on his face. She became aware of the imam tapping his pen and the perspiration on her upper lip.
“Do you intend to take care of your children?” the imam repeated.
“Yes … Inshallah,” she mumbled.
“Would you like to make shahadda today?” He peered over his wire frame glasses. “That is, do you wish to declare your faith in Islam?”
Alison shook her head. “No.”
The imam took off his glasses to look at her. “There is no compulsion in religion, but I do encourage you to seek knowledge.” He shuffled his papers. “We’re ready to start.”
Alison took a deep breath and tried to focus. Her heart pounded and sweat spread below her clothing. The imam continued with questions about their names and dates of birth. Her eyes darted around the room from Khalid, to the prayer beads in Mr. Barakat’s hand, to the bookshelves lining the walls. Her eyes passed over the shelves, which held a jumble of books and row after row of the Qur’an.
Once Alison had suggested buying a Qur’an for Khalid’s mother as a gift. They were in the Pakistani shop that sold a mix of halal foods and Muslim clothing. Amongst a pile of Islamic literature, Alison had found a small gold-trimmed Qur’an. She asked Khalid if his mother would like it. Without glancing up, he said, “She can’t read.” He said this as though it were a normal thing, the way one might say: She can’t cook.
The imam continued with his questions. “And who will be the bride’s wakeel? Her representative?”
“He will.” Khalid pointed to Ibrahim, and anxiety fluttered inside Alison.
Pen poised to write, the imam asked, “May I have your name please?”
As Ibrahim spelled his name, Alison stared at the gangly young man. He was younger than she and not as smart. She knew this from their discussions at the coffee shop.
The imam glanced at Alison. “Do you accept this man as your wakeel?”
“Yes,” she said. What else could she do?
The imam peered at her. “Has someone explained your marriage rights?”
She had studied this in her Human Rights in Islam course. But when she tried to think of what she knew, all that came to mind were vague, theoretical notions. Alison cleared her throat. “Could you tell me?”
“You have the right to mahr, money paid by the husband to the wife at the time of marriage. You have the right to a marriage contract, in which you can outline your own conditions. Do you have a marriage contract?”
“Do I need one?” Her head swelled with regrets. Why hadn’t she thought of this? She had allowed herself to be swept up into these Muslim vows without any preparation at all.
“It’s a personal choice. Some women have conditions.”
Alison nodded. The conditions were protection for needy women. She lifted her chin. She didn’t need that type of security.
“About the mahr, what have you agreed on?”
Everyone turned to Khalid, who said, “I was thinking of … I don’t know if this is okay. I wrote …”
Alison held her breath. She felt suffocated by the scarf and wanted to speak up. She didn’t need any money. She wasn’t Muslim, and this wasn’t her custom.
“I wrote one dollar,” Khalid said.
A trickle of sweat rolled down Alison’s back.
“Is that what you two agreed on?” the imam asked.
“We haven’t talked about it,” Khalid said.
The imam switched his gaze to Ibrahim.
“It’s fine with me,” Ibrahim said. Alison stared at him, her mouth agape.
The imam looked at her. “Are you okay with that amount?”
She thought for a moment and reminded herself this wasn’t her practice. “It’s fine.” She shrugged. Everyone was acting so official about a silly dollar.
“Should I give it to her now?” Khalid asked.
The imam gestured for Khalid to hand it over. He took out his wallet and opened it. Alison saw the edge of a ten and a twenty. “I don’t have any ones.” He looked to his cousins.
“Let me check.” Salim reached for his wallet and drew out a dollar bill, crisp and new, and passed it to Khalid, who handed it to Alison, the way a man would tip a waitress.
The imam fixed his eyes on her. “Do you freely choose to marry this man, Khalid Mansour?”
“I do.”
“Khalid, do you freely choose to marry this woman, Alison Taylor?”
“Yes.”
As Alison watched Khalid sign his name on the certificate, she smiled. At last, relief, a giddy breathlessness that rose up in her chest. That was it. They were married.
“As a final note,” the imam said, “I’d like to read from Surah An-Nisa.” He reached for the Qur’an in front of him and began to recite in Arabic. Alison caught some of the words, but none of the ideas. Three years of studying Arabic, deciphering its three-letter roots, including a spring quarter in Cairo, and all she could comprehend were bits and pieces.
The imam finished, closed the Qur’an, and handed it to Alison. “For you.”
She took the book, heavy in her hands, and everyone rose from their seats. The men shook hands all around, and the cousins kissed Khalid multiple times on each cheek. As Alison stood by, she had a sudden impulse to kiss Khalid, but knew this was out of the question inside the mosque. Meanwhile, Ibrahim performed a small bow for her, and Salim said, “Alf mabruuk.” A thousand congratulations.
Out in the parking lot, it had stopped raining and the air was fresh. Alison stood by the car while the men laughed and patted one another on the back. The brick mosque loomed over them; she wouldn’t be going in there again. One day, she and Khalid would visit the famous mosques of Damascus and Jerusalem. She would wear her scarf Queen Noor-style next time.
“Yalla,” she said. Hurry up. Khalid waved good-bye and then was next to her, sliding a hand around her waist and kissing her cheek. As they drove away with the mosque behind them, tears of relief welled up behind her eyes, and she released the breath she had been holding.
Alison reached behind her and placed the Qur’an on the backseat. She stared down at the marriage certificate in her hand, examining her signature, tidy and consistent, written with deliberate style. Next to it was Khalid’s, in his childlike script. She still had the dollar bill pressed in her palm. She stared at the bill, no longer crisp and new, but crumpled in her hand.
Chapter 3
The alarm clock went off at 3:20 a.m. Zainab reached for it, and although she knew better, she glanced to see if her husband Abed was next to her. Alone, she slowly got up and shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, passing the room where her son Ahmed and his wife slept. Zainab, still half asleep, splashed water up her arms, preparing for the morning prayer. Back in her room, she stood at the edge of her carpet and adjusted herself in the
right direction. Covered in white, she began the prescribed movements, bending, prostrating, and mentally reciting her prayers.
Afterward, she remained kneeling for her supplications. With palms up, eyes closed, she whispered, “Allahu Akbar.” God is great. “Thank you for the blessings you’ve bestowed upon my family.” She carried out her regular formula of praising, thanking, and asking for guidance. “Grant health to my body, my blood pressure, and my sugar levels. Don’t let me get sick in this disbelieving country.”
Her prayers then shifted to specific family members. “Guard and protect my mother, my brother Waleed, and my sister Anysa. Ease their suffering.” Eyes still closed, she could see her family in the refugee camps of the West Bank. She made a special du’a—a prayer inspired by guilt—for her youngest daughter Nadia, bless her, left behind in Jordan. Poor girl.
Zainab progressed to immediate matters. “Praise be to you that my son finished university.” For a moment, she got a tingle of delight thinking of Khalid graduating later that very day. “Ya Allah, please guide Khalid’s new bride—what’s her name? Guide her to be a good wife. Lead them both down the right path. If that is your will.”
Zainab exhaled. “And Ahmed. Protect and guide him. Help him get a job in an Arab country. Let their children learn Arabic and be good Muslims. Have Margaret wear hijab again.” She whispered, “Ya Allah, there is nothing easy except what you make easy.”
When Zainab was certain she had mentioned each of her two sons, five daughters, and twenty-five grandchildren, she took a deep breath and moved to her final and most important du’a: “Ya Allah, have mercy on Abed’s soul.” Her hands trembled at the thought of her late husband. “Remove from him the punishment of the grave. Reward him with paradise. There is no deity but you.” A vision of Abed flickered in her mind. She reached for her prayer beads and recited subhan’Allah at each bead. Glory be to Allah. After squeezing each of the thirty-three beads, she put them back in their place, removed her prayer garments, dropped back into bed, and fell asleep.
Zainab hoisted herself into the front seat of the minivan, next to Ahmed. For this day, she wore her best white scarf and best embroidered thob. Margaret and the three kids settled in the back. They pulled out of the cul-de-sac, and Zainab, as usual, surveyed the neighborhood as they passed. The wooden houses seemed temporary compared to the sturdy stone homes in Palestine—those were homes you could live in for generations.
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 3
