Chapter 9

As they drove home, Alison asked Khalid, “So if I go to this Qur’an study, you’ll stop bothering me about my clothes?”

Would he really let up? His new habit—to evaluate each of her outfits, checking to see if a garment was too tight, too short, or too see-through—was making her nuts. He used to like the way she dressed, but now Alison had gotten rid of some of her favorite tops and skirts for him. Not only was it exasperating figuring out what to wear, but his requests were so silly and unfair.

“Study the real Islam.” He took his eyes off the road and looked at her. “Not the one taught at university. Those classes aren’t even taught by Muslims,” he said. “They’re taught by Jews.”

“That was just one Jewish professor.” She wished she’d never told him.

He took the exit to Capitol Hill. “It’s their strategy, having Jews teach Islam.”

“It was just one.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not a conspiracy!”

Alison knew better. All sorts of people were drawn to Near Eastern studies and for different reasons. She had never told anyone about the mix of danger and fascination that drew her to the conflicted region—the same region that her own Syrian-American parents had rejected. How could she explain? Since her first visit there, she had felt an adrenaline rush, a magnetic pull toward all things Middle Eastern. She daydreamed about traveling there again—only now Khalid would be her guide.

He drove down Broadway and took the turn to their apartment. They passed a dumpster overflowing with garbage. Nausea fluttered inside her. Fortunately, they would be off Capitol Hill by the end of the month, away from the stench and the litter.

She said, “We should do some packing when we get home.”

He glanced at her. “Maybe you shouldn’t push yourself so much.”

“I could get more done if …” Nearly four months along, she blamed her pregnancy for slowing her down. That’s why she had given in to that Pine View complex in the suburbs. The new place was clean and sterile, the only apartment that didn’t make her ill. Besides, they couldn’t afford to live in the city anymore, now that they needed two bedrooms. As soon as Khalid got a job, though, they would save up and move back to Seattle.

They packed two boxes together before Alison’s thoughts turned to food. In the kitchen, however, nothing looked good. She flipped through her cookbook of Middle Eastern cuisine and decided on ful, the food she had subsisted on while studying in Cairo, the food of Egyptian laborers and unemployed Arab-Americans. Khalid made tea and warmed bread while she smashed the fava beans with lemon and garlic. The dish was usually a favorite, but when it was finished, it looked unappealing. She suffered a fresh wave of queasiness as she added chopped tomatoes, a drizzle of olive oil, and fresh parsley. On their tiny table, they arranged the simple meal.

“Bless your hands,” Khalid said in Arabic.

“And your hands, too.”

They sipped their tea and ate in silence while Alison thought ahead to the Qur’an study group that evening. Khalid probably expected her to convert right away—if so, he would be disappointed. If anything, the study group would improve her classical Arabic.

Meanwhile, the graduate school printouts remained set aside, no longer on the table, but placed out of sight. Her intention to apply gnawed at her, yet there was always something to do: write a cover letter for Khalid, prepare a meal, go to work, or wait for the nausea to pass.

After a few bites, the sight of the ful swimming in oil sickened her. She pushed the plate away. “I can’t eat any more.”

He touched her arm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” She turned away until the ful was out of her vision.

Khalid stroked her belly, which was just starting to swell. He was clearly pleased with the pregnancy, showing no worries or doubt. In the beginning, when Alison had first expressed her concerns over finances, he had said with an earnest look, “God will provide for this baby.”

At the time, Alison stared at him. God will provide? She had never heard Khalid say anything like that before. She hoped he would hurry up and get a job. He would need more than blind faith to support a family.

They cleared the table, and she went to change. She put a tunic on over an ankle-length skirt. Long over long, that’s what she called her new look, overdressed for July but perhaps underdressed for Qur’an study group. As she removed her Qur’an from the shelf, her anticipation switched to unease. Would she have to wear a scarf? Would they pressure her to convert?

Alison slipped the Qur’an in her bag and kissed Khalid good-bye. He would soon be off to play tarneeb with Ibrahim and Salim and another friend. The card game, Khalid’s escape of choice, lasted for hours.

When Alison arrived, Margaret was ready for Qu’ran study, already wearing a green headscarf which concealed her red hair, making her look like a different person.

As they drove out of the cul-de-sac, Margaret told her, “We’re going to Aisha’s.”

“Where’s she from?” Alison asked.

“From Seattle. She changed her name when she converted.”

“Why didn’t you change yours?”

Margaret cleared her throat. “I’ve changed enough things.”

They pulled up to Aisha’s, a modest single-story home. She answered the door and welcomed them in. Her Islamic greetings were long and formal, as was her floor-length jilbab.

Margaret gestured to Alison. “This is my new sister-in-law, Alison.”

Aisha looked her up and down. “Masha’Allah.” She led them into the small living room, where she introduced Alison to the other women: an Iraqi, a Turkish-American, and a woman from Spokane. The Iraqi woman immediately pressed Alison on her personal details—where her husband was from, what he did for a living, and how long they had been married. As Alison provided brief answers, she crossed and uncrossed her legs.

Then Margaret spoke up. “By the way, Alison’s family is originally from Syria.”

“Christian or Muslim?” Aisha asked.

“Greek Orthodox.”

At this, the woman nodded sympathetically at Alison, as though converting to Islam was the next logical step for someone like her.

“We’re still waiting for two more people.” Aisha patted her scarf. “Lateefa is bringing a new sister, inshallah. So, we’ll have two new converts tonight.” She smiled at Alison.

“Actually, I’m not Muslim.”

“There’s no compulsion in religion.” Aisha’s smile turned into a tight line. “Let me tell you about our group. Inshallah, God willing, we’ll start by studying hadith. Do you know what that is?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s a saying or tradition of the prophet. Peace be upon him. Then we’ll study a surah from the Qur’an. Then we’ll pray.” Aisha gestured to the Qur’an on the coffee table. “The Qur’an is very important. You get blessings for each chapter you memorize, each word you read.”

The doorbell rang, and she jumped up. Two women entered—one in a flowing black abaya, the other in jeans and a modest blouse. Aisha and the woman in the abaya engaged in a complex set of Arabic greetings. The other woman, the new convert no doubt, stood by, looking ill at ease.

The woman in black sat and arranged her abaya around her. “Lateefa is my Muslim name,” she told Alison. “Lynn is my real name. You can call me whichever.” She explained why they were late. Her husband, from whom she was separated, had been late picking up their boys.

Lateefa went on talking—complaining actually—about her estranged husband, who was useless when it came to taking care of their two boys. She was clearly bitter yet seemed to take pleasure in recounting this. She spoke with an accent, an inflated version of an Arab immigrant, punctuating every sentence with her fingertips. Her mimicry was not complete, however. Lateefa’s manner would be Arab one moment; then she would slip back into Lynn, the American girl she really was.

Alison had known other converts in her classes, but none as flamboyant as this one. It was like looking at the glaring sun when you knew you shouldn’t. Was her Arab impersonation deliberate or some subconscious attempt to fit in? Alison knew she shouldn’t stare, but she couldn’t pull her gaze away from Lateefa and her layers of sequined abaya. Alison wondered if, deep down, that was how Khalid wanted her to dress. Was that why he insisted she change her clothing?

Aisha clapped. “Sisters, let’s get started.” The women, all wearing headscarves except Alison and the new convert, brought their attention to the book of hadith in Aisha’s hand.

After discussing hadith on charity and cleanliness, it was time to study Qur’an. Aisha, a model of Islamic behavior and modesty, explained that the Qur’an was like no other book. It was the word of God; they couldn’t just throw it in their purse along with their wallet and car keys.

Alison shifted in her seat and glanced down at her bag, bulging with the thick Qur’an.

The woman from Spokane asked if it was okay to read the Qur’an if she were menstruating. Aisha replied that it was okay as long as the Qur’an contained an English translation and she didn’t touch the pages with her fingers.

Alison blinked as Aisha announced the surah they would be studying. Everyone flipped to the page. The menstruating woman used the eraser end of a pencil to turn her pages. The surah was one of the little ones from the back of the book. Alison was familiar with it from her Qur’an and Its Interpretation class, where she had felt so smug. Her classmates didn’t know Khalid had been helping her. She had just started dating him—when the relationship had been fresh and thrilling.

For Alison, the Qur’an was like a puzzle. Unlocking the roots of unknown Arabic words was as rewarding as any crossword or Sudoku game. But the Qur’an wasn’t a puzzle or an academic subject to these women. They believed it.

At last, it was time to pray. Alison remained seated while the other women arranged the prayer carpets and lined up. As Aisha led the prayer, Alison and the woman with her period both sat observing. The other women prayed with concentration, their eyes cast down. Only the new convert peeked up and looked around.

Finally, the women relaxed, sipping Lipton tea and eating brownies. They posed a series of questions to the new convert, focusing primarily on her marriage to a Moroccan man. Alison waited for them to cross-examine her again, but the conversation moved to Margaret.

Aisha asked, “Why haven’t we seen you for so long?”

“Sorry about that.” Margaret’s face tensed. “I’ve been held captive by my in-laws.” She told the women how she was nearly driven crazy from having Ahmed’s mother living with them.

While the group offered comforting words, Alison stayed quiet. She hadn’t realized the situation was so unbearable. It was a relief that Khalid was not the oldest son like Ahmed, who assumed the main duties of taking care of their mother.

“Something else is going on.” Margaret furrowed her brow. “Ahmed has this insane idea about moving to the Gulf.”

“Where?” someone asked.

“The UAE. He wants to manage coffee shops there.”

The women buzzed. “You’ll hear the call to prayer every day,” one said.

“Your children could learn Arabic,” Lateefa added, and the others nodded.

“I have a lot of concerns.” Margaret rubbed her forehead. “The kids are settled here. What would we do with the house? And the restaurants?”

“You have to trust in Allah,” Aisha said from her throne, the largest armchair in the room. “Maybe it’s a chance to move to a Muslim country.” She tilted her head. “Allah is the best of planners.”

“You must make du’a,” the Iraqi said. “There’s a du’a for making decisions—do you know it?”

“I’ve already made my decision,” Margaret said.

Aisha asked, “What about your mother-in-law?”

Margaret shook her head slowly. “If we moved there, I imagine her taking over the house.”

Aisha reached over and patted Margaret’s hand. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be that bad. You’d get lots of rewards for taking care of your husband’s mother.”

A long silence settled onto the room. Without thinking, Alison leaned forward. “I think the UAE could be a good move—if you consider the alternatives.”

Annoyance rippled across Margaret’s face. Then she said in a voice full of false cheer, “Did you know Alison’s pregnant?”

“Masha’Allah!” The women’s faces lit up. “Mabruuk! ” They beamed, so easily accepting that Alison could be a mother.

“You are how many months?” Lateefa asked.

Alison’s face grew warm. She summoned a firm voice in which she said, “Two and a half months.” Her response was based on calculations according to the date of their marriage at the mosque, as instructed by Khalid. Originally, she had laughed at this. Why was he so worried about what others thought? Now she went along.

“Inshallah, your husband will get a job soon,” the Iraqi said.

“He has another interview coming up,” Alison said, remembering that the wedding money was almost gone.

Aisha asked, “Have you thought about names?”

“If it’s a boy, he wants Abed.” Alison twisted her wedding ring. “After his father.”

“The name is very important.” Aisha spoke in a no-nonsense tone. “It’s not just about sounding good, it must have the right meaning.”

The meaning behind Abed made no difference to Alison. The name sounded flat and hideous, fitting for an old man maybe but not a baby. There were so many better-sounding Arabic names. Surely they could find one they both liked.

Margaret stood and gathered her things, and Alison felt a rush of relief. They said their salaams and moved toward the door.

Aisha kissed them both on the cheek. “You’ll come next week, won’t you?”

“Inshallah,” Margaret said.

Alison stole one last look at Lateefa and slipped out the door.

On the car ride home, Alison asked, “What’s up with Lateefa?”

“Lynn?” Margaret glanced at Alison. “She thinks she’s Arab.”

Alison nodded grimly.

Margaret continued, “She and her husband are separated.”

“Why did she leave him?”

“Actually, he left her.”

Alison’s eyes widened. “But she’s so Arab. She completely transformed herself.”

Margaret shrugged. “Maybe that was part of the problem.” She pulled off her scarf and shook her red hair free. “I came tonight just to get out of the house.”

Alison wanted to say that she came so Khalid would stop bothering her about her clothing. She wanted to say he went out to play cards almost every night. She was really almost four months pregnant, not two and a half. She wasn’t pleased to be pregnant and couldn’t imagine herself with a baby.

Alison sighed and looked out the window.