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Daddy dearest,

Well, I started my courses at the University of Ottawa last week! Here’s my course load: microeconomics, macroeconomics, financial math, and statistics! Our profs are flooding us with more info than we can handle, but don’t worry. I think I can manage!

In just three years, your darling daughter will be graduating with a bachelor of business administration, meaning she’ll be able to give you a hand there in Dubai. I really miss you!

Here at home, nobody understands me. Mommy won’t let me stay out after seven o’clock!! I don’t think I mentioned that she has a new friend who drops by for a cup of Turkish coffee every morning. Leila is her name, from Lebanon. It won’t be long before the Arab League headquarters moves in with us. What an awful woman! The way she looks at me, really nasty, as if I’m some kind of party girl. Maybe she doesn’t like my hairdo. Whenever she sees me, she whispers “May Allah help you in this infidel land” over and over.

But you should see the way her eyes are made up, and her Calvin Klein headscarf. What a hypocrite! I just don’t understand Mommy. Why does she put up with these women? I guess it’s because when Lynne, Mona, and I leave for school, she’s bored, so she invites them over to pass the time.

Too bad you’re not here with us. How is your work going? Is your partner still insisting on that deal with the Chinese? Just three more years and I’ll be able to help you manage the business. I can hardly wait for the time to pass!

Love and kisses,

Your loving daughter,

Lama

Lama laid her pen down on her desk. She got to her feet, stretched, and then folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope.

She wrote regularly to her father, Mr. Ezz Bibi. He had been living in Dubai, in the UAE, for the past several years. The letters were her only escape from the sense of suffocation that came with living in the family home. She looked forward impatiently for classes to begin, for the chance to see her friends, to study, to laugh, to enjoy life the way it was meant to be enjoyed.

Ottawa suited her just fine; she was happy that her parents had decided to immigrate. Unfortunately, her father couldn’t stay with her, her mother, and her two sisters. He had remained in Dubai to work and sent them money. If he didn’t, who would pay the bills: her and her sisters’ tuition fees, their mother’s extravagant expenses? She was always changing the furniture, the bed linens, the drapery, then inviting her friends over to display her latest extravagance, drink Turkish coffee, and study the grounds at the bottom of the cup that would predict the future.

Lama hated everything about her mother’s hypocritical lifestyle, the way she hid her boredom and the failure of her marriage by parading their wealth in front of her so-called friends. She didn’t like it any better that her mother hid behind religion, forbidding her from coming in late while she continued to spend her father’s hard-earned money hand over fist, all so they could live a comfortable life in Canada.

Lynne and Mona, her two sisters, didn’t share her feelings. They went along with their mother’s lifestyle. It didn’t bother them. In fact they too loved to shop and to spend money on things they didn’t need and didn’t even want.

Lama, lost in thought, heard her name. It was her mother calling.

“Laaa-maa, will you come here, please!”

Closing the door behind her, she went down the white marble staircase. An immense chandelier hung from the ceiling above. It lent the entry hall the majestic appearance of a five-star hotel lobby.

The house’s first owner had been a bankrupt Italian building contractor. He had built the place himself, using Italian marble; the magnificent kitchen had an imported ceramic tile floor. Its combination of Mediterranean look and luxury had charmed Samia Bibi, Lama’s mother. It was the house of her dreams: it reminded her of her childhood in Kuwait, the country her parents had chosen after they fled the war in Palestine and the loss of their ancestral lands.

Samia had always been accustomed to the good life. Her father was a physician, her mother a teacher. Her family never wanted for anything: they employed Sri Lankan maids, a Filipino cook, and an Indian chauffeur — whatever was necessary to lead a happy, peaceful life. But things hadn’t worked out that way for her. Her life was sad and melancholy, as was her elder sister Selma’s. Most of the time their parents were caught up in their work while their two daughters spent the afternoon with the servants, watching soap operas on television. So, when Samia first laid eyes on the beautiful house on a quiet crescent in the Ottawa suburbs, her mind was made up: This is where I’ll find my lost childhood, this is where I’ll find happiness.

Ezz Bibi, her husband, wasn’t quite so sure. The house was expensive, well above his budget, but he couldn’t turn back. Buying the house would mean that he was an investor in Canada. He could establish himself and his family and they could become permanent residents. His wife had cornered him and he couldn’t refuse — it was then or never. In a few days the house was theirs.

When Lama entered the kitchen, she could hardly believe her eyes. In the middle of the room stood Samia. Shopping bags lay strewn all over the dining table. Her mother was wearing a short, shiny gold dress, her arms spread wide like a snooty top model, her eyes glistening as if she were a little girl with a new doll. When she saw Lama, she burst out, “How do you like my new dress? Really cool, don’t you think?”

Lama was speechless.

“I bought it for Dina’s wedding. You know, Suzie’s daughter. Ah, I can hardly wait to see the look on Leila’s face. She won’t believe her eyes when she sees me!”

Lama found her tongue. “But Mother, what are you doing with a dress like the ones girls wear to the clubs? Shouldn’t you be wearing something a little more conventional, a little more modest, like you’re always telling me to wear?”

In a flash Samia’s expression changed from delight to indignation, and then to anger. “So I’m an old lady now, is that it? Maybe I should hide myself? And what’s immodest about this dress? Isn’t it better-looking than your ratty outfits? Let me remind you that it’s a party for ladies only, which means we can dress exactly as we like!”

Lama opened her mouth to reply, but the battle was lost before it began. Her mother was going to wear the dress and it was her daughter’s job to encourage her.

She turned on her heel and went up to her room. She had a paper on statistics due in a few days; it was time to get to work. Her sisters would look after complimenting their mother on her purchases. They wouldn’t criticize her attempts to look beautiful and modern before the other ladies.