Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  What a relief, alhamdulillah, she forgave her sister in the salon of the show-off villa in Jabal Amman. Zainab’s resentment had been visible to everyone. Ahmed had told her, “You must forgive her, Yama.” He said it in front of Anysa. Right in front of her! Then a strange thing had happened. As soon as Zainab mumbled the words, Anysa embraced her and Zainab’s heart filled with mercy. The rage had drained out of her body and she’d cried.

  Zainab cried again a few days later at the engagement party, held on the roof of that villa. She had danced with Anysa, the two of them swaying, waving white handkerchiefs, and admiring their children as music boomed across the rooftop. Nadia sat next to Mohammed, each perched under the colorful tent canopy. Zainab could see the effort that had gone into her daughter’s hair and eye makeup, which was now smudged with tears across her childlike expression. It was then that Zainab’s own tears began to fall. Her daughter, her last child, would marry. Soon Zainab would be an old woman on her own. So much to cry over!

  Meanwhile, Anysa had started crying, too. Surrounded by family members, the two women looked at each other. After all that had happened between them, they were still able to celebrate together over the joining of their children and over future grandchildren, inshallah.

  Anysa gestured for Zainab to come closer. She leaned in. Anysa shouted over the music, “I hope Nadia’s grateful for this party!”

  At this, Zainab’s face contorted. “And your son should be grateful for Nadia!” She pushed past her sister and made her way to the edge of the tent.

  Anysa was immediately by her side. “Nadia’s lucky to get such a party!” Her face was so close, Zainab could smell her breath.

  “It’s nice,” she yelled back, “but it could be better!”

  Anysa threw her head back in disdain, put a hand on her hip, and waddled away. How dare she walk away like that!

  This sequence of events from the engagement party now ran through Zainab’s mind as she furrowed her brow and wiped her hand on the dishtowel slung over her shoulder. Her mind was clogged with bitter thoughts, stuck with nowhere to go. She would allow herself three more sambusik pies to think about Anysa. Zainab moved her hands unconsciously: a spoonful of filling, fold, pinch, and place. The nerve of Anysa to keep bringing up this favor for Nadia. Oh, how Zainab wished their mother and Waleed had been there to keep Anysa in her place.

  When the third sambusik was set in the pan, Zainab tucked away her last thought of her sister. There were other matters that needed her attention. Fatma’s cooking, for example. When Zainab had insisted on sambusik for the day’s meal, Fatma said, “Yama, it’s too much work.”

  Zainab had tried to explain that cooking was a time to slow down and think about life. Now, as she pinched closed another pastry, she glanced at Nadia. Here was another problem, a girl who had to be pulled by force from her cross-stitch embroidery to help with the cooking.

  Nadia smiled wistfully and caressed the dough. “I wonder what he’s doing right now.”

  “Who?”

  “Mohammed, silly!”

  “You need to focus. I’d like to get this finished before dhuhr prayer.”

  Nadia touched the charm on her necklace. “I wonder if he’s at his uncle’s.” Her hands became still; a distracted look moved across her face.

  Was she blushing? Zainab studied Nadia, staring skyward, clearly oblivious to everything but her own daydream.

  Ya Allah. These love matches were always doomed. Too many expectations. It never lasted. There was nowhere for the marriage to go except down. Sometimes these couples didn’t even make it to the wedding. One misunderstanding and the whole engagement was off.

  Zainab took the dishtowel from her shoulder and flicked it at Nadia. “Get back to work.”

  Nadia jumped in her seat and laughed.

  “Don’t fret about Mohammed. You’ll see him tomorrow.”

  Zainab caught the scent of the jasmine, and for a moment she was sitting by Abed’s side in front of the sheikh of their village; she was a young bride sitting with her groom. As Zainab’s dim memories stirred, the images grew sharper. She was barely a woman, and they were performing the katb el-kitab, the marriage contract to make their engagement official. Abed was near her, but the space between them was wide. Yes, they had seen each other many times. They were cousins after all. But Zainab had lowered her gaze around him, covered her hair, and behaved modestly, just as her parents had instructed. As she recited a surah after the sheikh, she had few expectations of the man she was about to marry, only a fear of the wedding night. Therefore, she wasn’t disappointed when they were awkward strangers together—an unease that continued for years. It was only when the last of their children started school that Zainab truly enjoyed her husband’s company and took pleasure in his touch. It was then they became companions.

  Zainab raised her eyebrows and shrugged. She cradled a sambusik in her hand. That last decade with Abed had been the happiest time in her marriage.

  Then he died. Allah yarhamhu. Her chest tightened and she dabbed her eyes with the ends of her headscarf.

  “Yama?”

  Zainab coughed. “What, my love?”

  “Are you all right?”

  Zainab glanced at the nearly-noon sun. “It’s almost dhuhr prayer.”

  There was hope for Nadia, though. Zainab still had time to make an impression on her. But only if Nadia’s visa came through. Zainab might never have pursued the visa if she had understood the work involved: photographs, documents, letters to write. That was nearly all behind them now, as Nadia’s appointment at the American embassy was the following day.

  “Are you ready for tomorrow?” Zainab took another ball of dough, her swollen hands brushing against her daughter’s graceful fingers.

  “Mohammed’s writing a letter, and I’m putting together my own file.”

  “Really?” A file of what, Zainab could not imagine. It was Ahmed who had made all the arrangements, completed the application, written a letter of support, and paid the fee. But under one condition: no one was to mention it to Margaret. Zainab had agreed to the condition, but she found it pretty foolish.

  Ahmed had insisted. “I’ll tell her if the visa goes through.”

  If the visa goes through. Why did her son have no faith? Her sister Anysa didn’t have faith, either. She told Zainab to save the money. No one was getting visas to the US these days.

  Zainab had faith. At each prayer, she made a special du’a for Nadia’s visa. If it were God’s will, Nadia would pass the months of her engagement in America at her mother’s side learning the necessary skills to be a wife.

  After pinching the final sambusik, Zainab eased herself up from the ground and went into the house to make wudu. After she finished at the sink, she sat at the tub to wash her feet.

  Nadia entered and turned on the faucet. “Any news from Alison?”

  Zainab washed between her toes. “She’s at Huda’s but will visit Yasmine, inshallah.”

  Nadia splashed water on her face. “I can’t imagine her there. In the refugee camp.”

  Zainab tried to picture Alison in Huda’s salon or in Waleed’s courtyard next to the lemon tree, but her mind drew a blank. It was all so unexpected, Alison’s trip to the West Bank, traveling by herself to meet Khalid’s sisters. Still, truth be told, Alison was a foreigner, barely Arab, and not a Muslim. Here was an area where it was hard to have faith.

  Zainab reached for a towel, dried her feet, and reflected on her surprise when Khalid had told her Alison would accompany her back to America. He said that Alison would never allow her mother-in-law to travel alone.

  Zainab passed the towel to Nadia. “May God keep her safe.”

  In the bedroom, Nadia spread out the prayer carpets, and they began their silent prayer. As Zainab knelt, her mind wandered back to Anysa, but she stopped herself. She would not get swept up with spiteful thoughts. It would be a shame to spend her du’a asking for forgiveness.

  Zainab tried to refocus, but Surah Al-Ka
firun became muddled in her mind. She had recited this surah about the disbelievers thousands of times. Yet now she mixed it up and forgot whole ayat, as her mind flitted between Alison, Nadia, and Anysa. Out of the corner of her eye, Zainab saw that Nadia had already left the room.

  Palms held open, Zainab prayed hard for Ahmed to pass his job interview. How peculiar. Years ago, Zainab had made du’a for Ahmed to go to America. Now she made du’a for him to leave. In her mind’s eye, she held a picture of him living in the Gulf. He had a large villa where Zainab lived, too.

  She snapped herself out of her reverie and squeezed her eyes shut in intense concentration. This time she prayed for Margaret to agree.

  Chapter 18

  The day after the engagement party, Margaret accompanied Ahmed to the airport for his flight from Amman to Abu Dhabi. In front of Fatma’s house, Ahmed gave good-bye kisses to their children while Margaret looked on. She squeezed into the back of Abu Ra’id’s car, wedged between the mother and Fatma, who both reeked of the fried kibbe they had prepared for lunch. Nadia sat next to the window, cheerfully jabbering, her mood dramatically lifted since her engagement had been secured. In the front seat, Ahmed spoke intently with Abu Ra’id, their conversation peppered with the words Abu Dhabi and Dubai.

  Several days before, Margaret had brought up the topic of his interview. They were lying side by side in their hotel bed, the children sleeping in the next room.

  “Let me go and see,” Ahmed kept repeating. “It’s just an option.” And then finally, “Let’s not spoil our trip by fighting.”

  What was there to say? The discussion had ended before it even started. Margaret hadn’t brought up the matter again, foolishly adopting a strategy of avoidance and denial that she now regretted as she rode with the family to the airport. It was if she were going through the motions of someone else’s life, dragged along with no free will of her own. That inexpressible anger that had consumed Margaret now gave way to a dull feeling, a slow suffocation.

  At the airport, Ahmed strode through the glass doors into the departure terminal, his family following behind, the feeling among them celebratory. Perhaps it was a spillover from the engagement party or maybe it was the thrill of going to the airport—they seemed to go every chance they could.

  While Ahmed was changing money, he chatted with the female teller who took his dollars and laughed at something he had said. Ahmed gathered the Emirati dirhams, nodded to the woman, and rejoined his family. He tapped his watch and said he needed to check in. Instinctively, the family formed a line, ready to give their farewells. The mother performed her ceremonial send-off—multiple kisses and a mini speech. Fatma and Nadia did the same, invoking God’s name and reciting blessings, behaving as though he were never coming back. For God’s sake, the trip’s only two days. Abu Ra’id’s oration was delivered more like advice. He gently poked Ahmed’s chest and patted his shoulder, like a coach giving a pep talk.

  Of course. They were all wishing him well on the job interview. He was pursuing his dream, and his family was cheering him on. Where did Margaret fit into all this?

  It was her turn. She stepped forward. Her choices rushed over her: accept, ignore, pretend, or protest. Any confrontation would result in embarrassment. After all, plans had been made, a ticket booked.

  Ahmed smiled at her, and the eyes of the family were on them. He leaned in and she inhaled the scent of his cologne. He took her hand and squeezed it. “If I don’t do this, I’ll always wonder.” He then pulled back and said, “I won’t make any decisions without you.” His look was pleading, and for a moment, she had the urge to tell him she loved him.

  “Have a safe trip.” Her voice was flat, and her eyes betrayed her. She bit her lip, fighting the tears.

  He said good-bye, let go of her hand, and walked away. Her head filled with new questions. Where was he staying? Did he know anyone there? Did he pack enough clothes?

  Travelers rushed past, documents in hand. Margaret momentarily lost sight of Ahmed, but then he reappeared, his eyes meeting her gaze. He nodded, perhaps his way of saying he sympathized somehow. Margaret waved back and stood there with an unexpected feeling of being left behind. She turned away from the family, not able to stop her tears this time, not knowing if they were for Ahmed or for herself.

  The first day without Ahmed, Margaret sat in the shade of Fatma’s courtyard. It was late morning and the temperature was rising. With the festivities now over, the house was returning to its regular routine. Fatma hung wet laundry while the children tossed a rubber ball around. The mother was showing Nadia how to chop a salad into teeny-tiny pieces.

  Margaret massaged the ache in her shoulders. She couldn’t help but think of Ahmed, who had called the night before to say that he had arrived safely. Now she wondered about his interview. Maybe the next time she saw him, he would announce he wanted the job. A shiver ran through her, and she longed for a private place to cry.

  Then a familiar sound—the muezzin’s call to prayer—beamed in from the minaret across the street. The sound had been there all along, but this time Margaret stopped to listen.

  Allahu Akbar. Ash hadu an la ilaha ill Allah.

  God is great. I bear witness there’s no god but Allah.

  The words rang on.

  Hayya ‘alas-salah.

  Rush to prayer.

  Fatma hung the last of the laundry; the children scurried after the ball. The muezzin’s voice played in Margaret’s ears. It had been a long time—a year?—since she had performed the prescribed prayer regularly. But now when the call to prayer ended, a force pulled her up. She stood and walked purposefully into the house. She performed her wudu and gathered a prayer carpet from the sitting room, but then hesitated. Her prayer covering was back in Seattle. She turned to Fatma’s oldest daughter and asked for something to wear. The girl went down the hallway and returned with a white garment.

  As soon as it was in Margaret’s hands, she saw the white lace trim. “Oh no,” she said, handing it back. “That’s your grandmother’s.”

  The girl gestured as if to say no matter and walked off.

  Slowly, over her jeans, Margaret slid on the prayer skirt, which was clearly too short. The scarf was tight around her face, and Margaret had an urge to snatch it off. Instead, she stepped to the edge of the prayer carpet. She moved through the surah, the words coming easily. It felt good to bring her forehead to the ground.

  Her thoughts segregated; one mentally reciting the prayer, the other considering why she had stopped praying regularly. The first prayer to go had been the morning fajr prayer, followed by the afternoon prayers. The downward slide began just after Margaret stopped wearing hijab. With her head covered, it had been easy to pray; she had been dressed for it.

  Margaret finished the prayer in Arabic and remained sitting on the floor. She held up her palms. Now something in her own language, something from the heart. Looking at her open hands, her du’a became a series of false starts.

  First, she asked for Ahmed to fail his interview. That didn’t sound right, so she backtracked and asked for him to return safely. Next she asked for whatever was best for their family. But that wasn’t sincere, as she only wished for one thing: to stay in Seattle. That was a selfish prayer. Still, she prayed vigorously for it. Everything in the room—the cold tile floor, the stack of mats in the corner, the plastic sandals scattered about—these and a thousand other details told Margaret that her place was back home.

  Two days later, in the airport arrivals area, Ahmed appeared in front of Margaret.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “Nothing happened. We just have to wait.” His expression was resigned, even depressed. Perhaps the interview hadn’t turned out as he’d hoped. He told her nothing more, but in the car he talked with his family. For once, Margaret felt an acute need to understand every word of their Arabic.

  That night, when they were back at the hotel and the children were sleeping, she watched Ahmed get ready for bed. “Tell me about the interview.”<
br />
  “Nothing to tell.” He pulled on his pajamas. “They asked me about my style of management, how I motivate workers, deal with conflict, questions like that.” He sat on the bed, looking clearly exhausted.

  “Well, how did it go?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged and slipped into the bed. “Honey, we just have to wait.” He pulled the covers around himself and closed his eyes. Any details of the interview stayed shut inside him.

  Next to him, Margaret remained wide awake, incensed at the sound of Ahmed’s soft snoring. Damn. How did she end up married to such a man? He withheld information from her. He made outlandish plans on his own. He left her sitting in the dark as he plotted their lives. Each bit of information he withheld was another stone in the wall between them. He was finally going to drive her insane, she was sure of it.

  The next morning in the hotel restaurant, they all filled their plates at the breakfast buffet while Ahmed spoke cheerfully in Arabic on his cell phone. They sat down with their breakfast, and he set his phone aside.

  “Honey, there’s someone I want to visit.”

  Margaret looked up from slicing cantaloupe on Leena’s plate.

  “Remember my friend Rashid? He and his wife, Cynthia, are expecting us this afternoon.”

  “It’s our last day. Aren’t you going to spend it with your family?”

  Tariq spoke up. “Are we going, Baba?”

  “No, just your mom and me.” He turned to Margaret. “It’s only for tea.” He studied her, as though gauging her reaction. “You know, they used to live in the Emirates. I thought maybe she could answer some of your questions.”

  Margaret decided to disregard that comment. “Do we have to go?”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Rashid. Too long.”

  So that afternoon, they left the kids at Fatma’s and drove again through the chaotic traffic circles of Amman. In the car Ahmed recounted details about Rashid—how he had moved to Saudi Arabia with his American wife, Cynthia, and how they had raised their family abroad. Ahmed had always spoken highly of these choices. Now Margaret would meet them at last.