Eclipse

The year of the accident was the year I started wearing the hijab.

I thought Saqr would love me more if I did it. He praised Wadha whenever we went out on weekends, pointing at her face that was “as lovely as a full moon,” lit “by a divine light” cast down on it from God’s heavens and reflecting the heart of a woman filled with faith. I wanted some of that light. For heaven to look at me, for beautiful things to happen to me for a change.

So I decided—in an attempt to gain my older brother’s acceptance—to start wearing the hijab, to become part of this group, to do what I had to do to get my share of affection.

I put on the hijab and no one told me I looked as lovely as the moon, that the light of faith radiated from my pretty brow, that my eyes sparkled in a new way. They didn’t have a party for me and didn’t give me any gifts. Badriya bought me oversized tunics and full-length skirts from Marks and Spencer, a white veil made of crepe and another of cotton. “Congratulations, dear,” she said, patting my shoulder as Saqr chewed on his miswak and mumbled, “Good! Good! Next you’ll start wearing the niqab, God willing.” Wadha said that I’d started to look like an Afghani refugee.

The festivities ended quickly and the gathering dispersed. I didn’t hear the word ‘moon’ or the word ‘light’ or the word ‘faith.’ And I didn’t understand what mistake I’d made this time that had caused things to go poorly. During that period, when I was still partly a child and not quite a woman, I thought everything was my fault, and that my unerring brother was firmly protected by the sacred.

Saqr left. Badriya disappeared into the kitchen. Wadha went up to her bedroom and the younger kids continued running around. Why had the party ended quickly? Where were the sweets, where were the hugs and congratulations?

I returned to my basement, which had slowly started turning into a tortoise shell. I took the picture of my mother and father out of the drawer and looked into my mother’s pale face, at the part in her hair and the pearls she was wearing, the lace sleeves. I’m becoming a woman, Mama. It’s not as fun as I thought it would be. It’s not good to be a woman, in this place at least. Maybe if I was going to be another woman, not the one I’m supposed to be when I grow up, maybe then it would have been very nice. Mama, I wish I hadn’t been born.