“Is it—” But instead of finishing my sentence, I showed him the two papers I clutched in the thobe’s wide pocket, the marriage license and a certificate of chastity.
Hossein coughed in surprise.
“How did you—”
“Water will find a way,” I said.
Hossein examined both papers closely, holding the minister’s signature up to his eyes for inspection.
“It’s not a photocopy,” I said.
“I can see that. I can see, but I don’t believe. Our faith only trains us in the opposite, to believe what we can’t see.”
“Is this what you want?” I asked, clutching the sofa in a tight grip. “Faraz has never asked.”
“Ah yes, I’ve told him not to,” Hossein said, giving me back the papers. “I’ve wanted him to know the joy of love that is freely given, but as I said, it has not been yours to give.”
“It is!” I cried. “It is, I swear.”
Hossein looked at me, his eyes kind but knowing. He said, “If you loved Faraz, you’d have asked him. Women of our faith have always gone after what they wanted. Khadija chose her own husband, and Aisha bint Abubakr strode into battle on the back of a camel. But you came to me.”
I put my face into my hands and sobbed. This conversation was not going at all as I’d expected. In a minute he’d tell me to drink some tea and go home, or worse, he’d drop me off himself out of obligation.
“The blessing of our time,” Hossein said softly, “is the ease of acquiring a divorce. There are other places where a divorce is the same as a death sentence, but here … or in Morocco, for that matter, a divorce is easy and faultless. And if there are no children, finding another husband or wife is a matter of weeks. If a couple doesn’t divorce within a year, that’s how you know that what they have is real. Divorce is really a blessing for everyone, lawyers especially.”
There was a twinkle in his eyes. I didn’t understand. How could he make light of this? Was I going mad? But no, even Aisha’s father had turned serious for a moment as I left, saying, “It’s a good plan. I don’t think they’ll come after you. All their police and surveillance, they only look for people who break the law, not for those who use it to their advantage.”
“When do you want to do this?” Hossein asked when my sobs quieted, and he looked at the papers again.
“Two days’ time,” I said, not understanding where he was going. He’d just been talking about the joys of getting divorced, but I wanted to get married.
“It can be arranged,” he said. “There’s still the matter of the mahr, but—”
“I don’t care about mahr,” I said, stung. “I’m not like that. And I don’t plan on getting divorced!”
“You may not care about money,” Hossein said absently, “but your father’s a smart man. He knew people might try to steal you while he was away, and believe it or not they’ve tried. But your dowry is absurdly expensive. Why do you think your mother’s been slaving away all this time?”
Realization struck. There was no way that night after night of catering to Rashids, Rajhis, and Hariris was anything but lucrative. These were the billionaires who gave away diamond-studded watches as tips to waiters because they were two years out of fashion. My mother would have to be earning back not just her own dowry for a divorce, but enough to support a man who wished to marry me. With a sinking heart, I realized that even if we were now free to marry, men couldn’t afford us.
“Isn’t there a way for me to say I don’t want a dowry? That I’ll get a job?” I asked. How ridiculous, that the mahr, intended to protect us, was now the noose around our necks!
Hossein threw me a considering look. For a moment he switched from being the kindly old man I knew to being the sharp lawyer I respected and feared.
“You want something else, instead,” he said, not a hint of doubt in his voice.
“Yes,” I admitted, blushing. “I want to add a condition to the contract.”
“That is your right, as the bride,” Hossein said, and went to get a pen.
24
FITNA
There are certain days when you might feel wonderful until you step out into a gloomy, eerie fog, or other days when you feel as if the world is about to end but the birds are singing, and you might then wonder whether you’ve lost your mind, because you know there are no birds in the city of Riyadh.
My wedding was one of these surreal days. It was planned to happen at the same time as the debate. Dr. Haider had let us know through Aisha that if he was going to sign his name to something, he would see it through to the end, come what may. He would be there in person as a witness. Besides, he wasn’t allowed to be at the Majlis, cheering his daughter on, so he would have to listen to the debate the way the rest of the country would. In the car, on the radio.
So while Daria and Aisha stepped out of the school bus, walking unsteadily up the steps of the Ministry of the Interior, I followed Aisha’s gaze to the Lexus behind the bus. While the swarm of schoolgirls from across the country trickled in one direction to witness the first women’s debate in the country, Sofia, Mishail, and I got quietly into Dr. Haider’s car and were driven away to the registrar’s office.
We traveled in silence, listening to the radio, to judges on the panel question various teams.
“More and more women these days, particularly those under Western influence, are declaring themselves to be atheists,” said a judge. “Should we ban scientific education for women in favor of religious education?”
Aisha’s response rang out, clear as a bell.
“The question you ask is a strange one, because there is no difference between religious and scientific education.”
Pause for effect, I thought, and Aisha did.
A collective gasp hummed over the radio at the confidence of Aisha’s words, at the way she spoke as if infused by the voices of angels. She said, “According to the hadith on cross-pollination in Medina, the prophet said we must seek knowledge even if we had to go all the way to China for it. That a man without intellect has no religion. And as the scholar Al-Ghazali said, if the soul has not been exercised in the sciences of fact and demonstration, it will mistake hallucinations for truth. A woman who avoids scientific knowledge out of embarrassment or fear is no multazimat. She is a heretic.”
Dr. Haider laughed. “You did that,” he said, looking at me. I was glad of the veil that kept him from seeing my face.
As with every other building in the country, we used the women’s entrance to go to the marriage hall. Hossein had put our names down for an appointment, so the bored clerk simply told us what floor and room to go to. A large, mirrored wall separated the two women’s elevators from the rest of the floor, giving the illusion of the four elevators that were actually there. It was strange to think of what might or might not be happening on the other side of the glass, in the parallel universe of men that controlled our little world.
Was Hossein waiting on the other side? What did Faraz think? He’d sent me a text message, his first and only message to me, the night after I’d spoken to his father.
I knew you’d find a way. :-)
That was all he said. No romantic overtures, no promises. Was I making a mistake? Was that why Hossein had run on so long about the ease of acquiring a divorce?
Sofia and Mishail held my hands on either side, but I felt cold and numb. My mind ran in circles, trying to think of alternatives, like a blind man in search of the fire exits.
My blood pumped so loudly I was certain it was about to burst out of my skin. My hands were sweaty, and I felt bad for having dragged Sofia and Mishail into this.
“Are you sure?” I asked them, my voice hoarse. “If you don’t want to be here—”
Mishail just smiled and opened the door. Mishail’s and Sofia’s mothers were on the other side, standing with my mother.
My mother gave me an affectionate slap on the cheek and hugged me close, saying, “For a while there I was worried. I knew you were up to som
ething; I didn’t know what. If I’d known it was this … you wouldn’t have had to be so alone.”
I burst into tears, racked with nervousness. My mother hushed me, kissing my forehead and cheeks, telling me to be brave just a little longer.
“How long have you known?” I asked. “Did Hossein—”
“Maryam,” my mother said. “Did you really think she wouldn’t notice that all the forms were missing? She called me. We planned the rest. I called Hossein, told him to expect you. Here, hold on to these.”
She pushed a small leather purse toward me, and I unzipped it to see passports and some other official documents inside, including an envelope filled with money. My eyes widened.
“I’m not leaving yet,” I said. “School doesn’t even finish for days, and Faraz only begins at Qaraouine in August! And I can’t leave the country without—”
“Your new guardian,” she finished, her eyes shining. “I know. But you really think you can stay here after this? Don’t worry, we’ve arranged everything. You can use the summer to get settled.”
Her words finally made it real, and I started to shake as I realized I might not see her again for years. What would happen to her, to all the others who were helping us? What would happen when my father found out?
“Don’t worry about us,” my mother said, reading my anxiety. “They’ll have to pretend they agreed to it to avoid the shame. They can’t do anything else. You just have to get away before they find out.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in waves of excitement and terror. When the qazi asked me if I agreed to the contract, I felt my throat move in slow motion, and I wondered if my voice would even work.
“Khbal,” I muttered, losing almost all my vowels. Fortunately, Arabic didn’t require them, and the qazi wrote down that I had accepted.
I was in a trance the whole time. When we were done, Sofia, my mother, and I were shepherded into Dr. Haider’s car. Hossein, his wife, Faraz, and Mishail followed in another.
I received a text from Faraz.
Doesn’t feel real, does it?
Do you regret it? I asked, heart pounding in fear. I hadn’t been able to see his face yet, my husband’s face.
Not for a second, he wrote back immediately, and I clutched the phone to my heart.
We drove past the Majlis, and I closed my eyes for a second and whispered a prayer for Aisha, that we might someday meet again.
We arrived at the airport and walked up to the counter. I hung back, knowing that this was the moment where everything could go wrong. For a moment I wondered how we could be held back from the open skies by nothing more than glass walls and red ropes.
“I can’t believe you did this for us,” Faraz said to my mother when she handed us our tickets. “I may have been accepted, but I couldn’t afford to go.”
She hugged him, whispered something that I was sure was the concentrated version of take care of my daughter or I’ll kill you, given how he smiled at her. We were veiled fully as was required at the airport, so I couldn’t see her face. It made my heart ache.
I’ll come back for you, I promised her in my mind.
Faraz walked up to the desk and handed the tickets and passports to the official, who grumbled something over his shoulder.
“You think he suspects something?” I asked as I handed the marriage forms over. “The ink isn’t even dry!”
“He was just saying that he’s tired of all these summer honeymooners,” Faraz said. “The paperwork always lags behind, but there’s no questioning the ministry’s seal. Or the minister’s own signature.”
My mother’s fingers found mine and clasped them tight. She was crying.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, rapping my knuckles. “What you’re doing? Sacrifice like this, even the thought of it, it changes everything. It’s what brought us together.”
She glanced at the other women. Sofia’s mother and Mishail’s.
I frowned, not understanding what she meant. I wasn’t sacrificing anything, unless she meant my enormously unaffordable dowry, which I’d chosen to concede out of common sense.
“Someday you’ll see,” she said, kissing my veiled cheeks fervently as Faraz approached us with our tickets.
“It’s not over yet,” he said. “The real trouble’s the immigration on the other side. The law in Morocco forbids polygamy—”
“—except with the permission of the first wife,” Hossein said gently, to calm us. “Fi aman Allah, children.”
We walked past the red rope and into the waiting area. The ceilings of Riyadh airport were unnecessarily high, as if to make us feel our smallness. The chairs were uncomfortable, with hastily abandoned chewing gum stuck to the bottoms. We got in the airplane and took the four seats in the middle.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and started muttering the first surah under my breath as the plane rumbled down the runway. I’d never been in an airplane, and I was terrified. The pit in my stomach grew and grew until it was nearly intolerable, and just when I thought I might start to cry, we were in the air. I was so shocked that we had actually come this far that I sat still and unmoving until the seat belt sign turned off.
There was a commotion as women got out of their seats and threw off their abayas. Men in thobes disappeared into the bathroom and returned in jeans.
Sofia ripped off her abaya as if it were on fire.
Mishail stared at her cell phone.
“Do you think the phone notifies him if I’m above the country?” she asked, taking out the battery and chip.
“Hey, Leena,” Faraz whispered.
“Yes?” I said, surprised at the way my entire body shivered at his closeness.
“We’re still within the national borders, and as you pointed out, the ink is not yet dry,” he said, his lips brushing my cheek and making their way down to mine. “In case the plane gets turned around, there’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”
I laughed aloud and let our dreams take flight.
GLOSSARY
BOYAT Tomboys, or girls who disguise themselves or act as boys
FAISALIYAH A mall in Riyadh that has special zones for women
FITNA Civil strife, loss of faith, or war within the Muslim world, a period of religious despair
GARAWIYYA A naive, unpolished, or unmannered woman, for instance from a lower class or village
HARAAM Forbidden
HIJRA The migration of the prophet from Mecca to Medina, the beginning of the Muslim calendar and Islamic history
HUZUN Despair and melancholy, spiritual anguish
INHIRAF Deviance
INSH’ALLAH If God wills
ITJIHAD A personal, intellectual, or spiritual struggle—searching one’s soul for answers
KALAM EN-NAS Gossip, what people might say
KHULA Divorce initiated by the wife, as opposed to talaaq, which is divorce initiated by the husband
MULTAZIMAT Women committed to Islam
QAYAMAT Judgment or reckoning, the last day of the world, when God will separate the innocent from the guilty
RAMADAN Holy month, when one stays away from food and water from daybreak to sunset, and purifies the soul through prayer and avoidance of sinful thoughts
SHABAB A group of young men
SHILLAH A clique or small society
SHOUFA The viewing of a bride before her marriage
SURAH AL-NISSA The women’s prayer, a verse in the Quran
TAAHUD Confession signed by political activists that prevents them from blogging, speaking against the government, or leaving the country
TUFSHAN Unharnessed bored or frustrated energy
UMMAH Community (across geographies and time) of believers
WASTA �
��Influence or connections to power
WIRAN Young, effeminate boy
WISKHA Dirty, deviant, corrupt
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Julia Sooy and the crew at Godwin Books/Henry Holt Books for Young Readers for taking a chance on me. I am in awe over Aziza Iqbal’s stunning cover art and Liz Dresner’s design. Thank you to Laura Godwin, Melinda Ackell, Tom Nau, and the whole team at Macmillan for bringing this book into the world.
I owe so much to my agent, Kate McKean of the Howard Morhaim Literary Agency, for discovering the story buried in the sand and taking the time to make it shine.
I am grateful to Lydia Fakundiny of Cornell University, who taught me to write without fear, and to the poet Caroline Manring for teaching me to edit without mercy.
Finally, none of this would have been possible without my parents, whom I would like to thank for their absolute belief in me and their continued support of my atypical life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anat Deracine is the pseudonym of a professional wanderer whose passports include stamps from Iraq, Iran, Israel, Lebanon, Qatar, Egypt, Jordan, Morocco, and Turkey. She grew up in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, where she watched Scud missiles fall from the sky during the Gulf War. She studied engineering and philosophy at Cornell University and political science at Oxford University. Today, she lives in San Francisco. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Driving by Starlight Page 19
