One day, when I was seated alone on the floor, Hussein sat down only inches away, closer than any man but Ismail had been to me since I had arrived in Libya. He pulled a worn leather wallet from his pocket and dug into it to find a postage stamp – sized snapshot. Blushing, he pressed it surreptitiously into my hand. I held it up to my face to study the plain, serious face of a young woman in a dark head covering. She stared into the camera as if posing for a mug shot. The snapshot was creased and yellow at the edges; it must have been tucked away in his wallet for years.
“My fiancée,” Hussein said proudly, in halting English.
Ismail had never mentioned anything to me about the fact that Hussein had a girlfriend, much less that he was engaged. For a moment I felt a bitter righteousness; I had often complained to him about his failure to share important information about his family, details I needed in order to be a gracious daughter- or sister-in-law.
I held the photo up close and studied the woman’s face more carefully, this time seeing her through Hussein’s eyes: arched black eyebrows as precise as calligraphy strokes, full lips, round cheeks, and flawless skin. “She’s beautiful,” I murmured, handing the photo back to him.
Hussein nodded and flashed me a quick smile like we were in on a secret, then slipped the photo back into his wallet like money he was saving for the future. He told me his fiancée had sat on the opposite side of the room in his accounting class at the university. They had exchanged smiles over the heads of other students and had spoken a few words in the hallway or walking the pathways across campus. In one of those stolen moments, he had fallen in love. Like tumbling from a high place, like gravity’s swift and inexorable pull, it took no time at all for him to realize he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He had asked her parents for her hand in marriage, and the day they consented, seven years ago, she had given him the photo that he had just shared with me.
I imagined this young woman in her early twenties, celebrating her engagement—and then waiting under her parents’ roof, just like he had been doing, for seven long years. After all this time, had he become as difficult to recall as the math formulas she had learned in that class? Was she still as excited about her engagement now that her thirties loomed and the first fine crow’s-feet were appearing around the edges of her eyes?
“When do you see her?”
Sometimes driving down the streets of his hometown, he caught a glimpse of her walking with her mother or her sister: a flash of full cheek, the swivel of a round hip beneath flowing cloth. Sometimes in the market he saw her slender fingers reaching for fresh fruit or heard her distinct laughter floating above the chatter of vendors and shoppers.
“When is your wedding?”
He shook his head and furrowed his brow. Not until he had finished building his own house on the small plot of land beside his parents’ home, he said, pointing toward the barren courtyard. He would pay for the construction himself, with wages earned at his long-anticipated government job; he and his family would lay the foundation and build it piece by piece as he could afford to purchase the materials. In other words, it seemed as if he might be no more than halfway through his engagement. He would be lucky to wed before his bride’s eggs began to wither.
It seemed to me that nearly every person I encountered in Libya was waiting for something: a job, a house, a visa, a spouse, a car, a future. A lone shopkeeper in the market sat on an overturned crate, waiting with a faraway look in his eyes for customers who never arrived. Young men loitered on street corners all hours of the day, hands thrust deep into jeans pockets, scanning passing traffic as if impatiently waiting to flag down their futures like taxis. My sister-in-law, at home all day with two small children—without a car, sidewalks on which to push a stroller, or a park nearby where they could play—sat in her kitchen and stared out the window, clutching a cup of tea already cold in her palms, waiting for her husband’s return while her children’s shrieks bounced off the barren walls.
An impenetrable bureaucracy was cast like a fishing net over the entire country, trapping Libyans in place; the more they thrashed against their constraints, the more they engaged the dysfunctional system, the more tangled and paralyzed they became. The moment I had stepped onto Libyan soil, I felt the weight of this net falling over me. When the plane taxied to the gate at the Tripoli airport, I leapt from my seat and reached into the overhead bin, eager to be one of the first to enter the airport. If I had been paying attention, I might have noticed how slowly other passengers were now moving; this would have given me a clue of what was to come. One of the first to enter the airport, I immediately found myself in a stock-still line that snaked out the door. The line surged forward when a man at a desk waved an entire group through without even looking at their paperwork.
Then it came grinding to a halt. Up ahead at customs, a middle-aged man sat at a desk, now and then calling to a tight cluster of men who huddled in the corner in a nicotine cloud, eyeing those of us who had just arrived with hostile suspicion. For the next hour, we stood in place or stepped forward inches at a time, scanning the plain, stained walls for something to hold our interest, finding only Gaddafi’s massive portrait to contemplate. The men who appeared to be in charge took long drags off their cigarettes and carried on animated conversations in Arabic, like old friends who had gathered here to share news and gossip. They seemed oblivious to the line of exhausted, impatient travelers that spilled beyond this room. This was a perfect initiation to life in Tripoli.
In Ismail’s mother’s home, my waiting began in earnest. I waited to be told where to sit, then for tea to be served. I waited to go to the bathroom; to talk to Ismail, who was engrossed in conversation with the men in another room; to go for a walk, since my family insisted I needed a chaperone. I waited to be driven downtown, and when we had finally gotten to the old city market and Gaddafi announced without warning that all stores must immediately close so he could make a speech on television, I returned home and waited for his announcement that stores could reopen. (That announcement came days later.)
I belonged to a world where, with one mouse click, I could purchase a plane ticket, track down an old boyfriend, chat with childhood friends now living in California, China, or Ethiopia. I could order a meal to be delivered to my door in minutes; jump in my car and head to the mall, grocery store, or cafe to satisfy any craving; lace up my running shoes and disappear into the woods. Thanks to such dizzying freedom, I had friends all over the world. I was well traveled, well dressed, and physically strong—and very, very bad at waiting. Especially when it came to my addictions.
My first few days in Libya, each time I saw a flash of Gaddafi’s signature green in the distance, I imagined, like a mirage, a green Starbucks goddess beckoning to me from a distant storefront. My heart sank when I realized it was a figment of my imagination, but an equally appealing sign made my heart race when we pulled up to the curb beside it: a small, hand-painted sign that read INTERNET. Hussein worked part-time there, in a dim, narrow room lined with dated computers. We ducked inside. Hussein sat at the front desk and I sat down at a terminal beside a teenager watching a YouTube video, her earplugs tucked beneath her head scarf. The sight of Google popping up on my screen was as familiar and comforting as the sight of my own front door. I would have been happy to sit there all day long checking news headlines, scanning the weather, emailing friends. Even checking work email felt like a vacation.
Suddenly two skinny boys in matching green fatigues burst through the front door yelling in Arabic. Their voices ricocheted off the empty walls, and the rifles slung over their shoulders swung like toys against their hips. Startled teenagers in tunics or hijabs looked up, then froze like statues and locked their gazes on the screens before them. Hussein curled his shoulders inward and dropped his eyes to the ground. The boys, who appeared to be half his age, squared their skinny chests and barked orders, raising their voices over one another as if in contest to see who could be the loudest. They would have seemed c
omical if not for the fear that blew through the room like a cold wind.
Hussein nodded and murmured placating sounds, and then they turned abruptly and left, slamming the door behind them and peeling away from the curb in a shiny new German car. When I asked Hussein what their visit had been about, he told me they were from Gaddafi’s internal security force and that they had come to demand that he take down the small storefront’s Internet sign. Gaddafi had banned the English alphabet from Libyan streets. I looked out at the small, sun-faded sign, its paint peeling at the edges. How long had it been hanging there? About three years, Hussein said, the left side of his mouth lifting into an ironic smile. I looked longingly back at the computer monitor before me. I wanted to climb inside the screen, hook myself to the Internet with an IV, numb myself from the unrelenting strangeness of this country. But Hussein rose from his seat and gestured toward the car. It was time to go; my sister-in-law Fauziya was expecting me.
FAUZIYA WAS A tall, slender woman with sculpted black eyebrows and a porcelain complexion. She commanded respect both inside and outside the home. It was evident in her quiet authority over her children, in the attentive way her husband listened to her, in the way shopkeepers in the market brightened at the sight of her and hurried to meet her requests. Before she left her house she applied red lipstick, slipped on high-heeled Italian boots, and wrapped a scarf expertly around her head so that it hugged her face and fell in silken ripples over her neck. When she returned home, she slipped off her boots and removed her head scarf in the foyer, shaking loose a thick black mane that fell down her back. To my eye, the black curls that framed and softened her face transformed her swiftly from foreign to familiar.
At her half-built home in an arid field there were no sidewalks, no walking paths, no nearby parks where the children could play. One day Ismail left me there while he tried to track down his passport, which had been confiscated from us at customs. (Ten days before, when we had arrived, an airport official had tucked it into the pocket of his cheap polyester workshirt, waving us on with a promise to return it to us sometime in the next few days. We had heard nothing since.) I sat in her drafty house, where children delirious with boredom tore from room to room with high-pitched squeals. When I couldn’t bear the sound any longer I moved to the front steps, where I squatted and tilted my face toward the weak morning sun.
I was increasingly desperate to escape Fauziya’s excruciating patience and grace. She seemed unphased by the cold wind pawing at the black plastic, the shrieks of the children, the watery Nescafé she served. She smiled warmly at me as she washed yet another stack of dishes, and I tried to prevent my restlessness from exploding into full-blown rage: Where was Ismail? When would I finally get a few minutes to myself? Where could I get a real cup of coffee? And what kind of a goddamn vacation was this, anyway? My swollen American ego was a serious liability in this country—a heavy burden like an unwieldy, overstuffed bag I hauled everywhere, often enduring incriminating glances from in-laws who had never before seen a woman weighed down by so much individualism, impatience, and desire. Libya’s rough terrain was far too treacherous for me to be hauling around this much baggage. Fauziya’s ego, like a lightweight backpack containing only the barest essentials, was far more suitable; patience and humility cultivated over a lifetime allowed her to gracefully scale Libya’s formidable obstacles and navigate its tight spaces.
One morning, with another long day stretching out before us and very little to do, I sat on the edge of Fauziya’s bed, watching her prepare for a trip to the grocery store. I asked her to show me how she wrapped her head scarf so that it fit so snugly around her face and fell so elegantly to her shoulders. She selected a rectangular brown cloth from her closet, soft as a cotton jersey, then stood before me and tented it over my head, carefully lining up the edges. She swept it twice around my face and tucked it neatly beneath my chin with a pin. I hurried to the bathroom to examine myself in the mirror. With my hair no longer exposed, my blue eyes and long face seemed somehow even more so. The scarf hugged my face, warm and snug. It did not feel smothering, as I had assumed it would. Instead it offered privacy, warmth, and protection. I was startled by how different I looked—and how comfortable I felt.
The next time I joined Fauziya on a shopping trip downtown, I followed the steps she had shown me to wrap the scarf around my own head. I felt self-conscious when I stepped into the living room wearing it for the first time, but only Aliya stared wide-eyed and openmouthed from where she stood in the doorway. My in-laws smiled and complimented me. On Libyan streets the scarf was a reassuring barrier, protecting me from chilly coastal breezes and the curious stares of strangers.
One morning not long after, Aliya emerged from her bedroom with her white cotton tights pulled snugly down around her head, concealing all her hair. Flaccid leggings fell on either side of her face. Her four-year-old cousin stood by her side, his arm locked in hers, his own head swaddled in a towel. They explained to us they were aunties visiting for tea, so we offered them tiny cups filled with warm milk. While we stood in the kitchen, they sat at our feet sipping from them. Fauziya leaned forward and reached for my hand, as if she was about to break some difficult news. She wore a floor-length housedress and her thick black hair was swept into a high twist off her neck. Her gold earrings swayed like pendulums as she leaned in toward me.
“Sometimes you make me nervous,” she said, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
I froze, both taken aback and intrigued by her candor.
“Why?”
Her hands fluttered in the air as she reached for just the right English words to diplomatically express what she needed to say. Finally, lacking the vocabulary to soften her statement, she threw her hands into the air.
“You don’t act like a woman.”
In sweatpants and one of Ismail’s old running T-shirts, I leaned back against her kitchen counter, speechless. I had just fit a baseball cap onto my head and was about to lace up my running shoes. My plan was to jog a few brisk laps around the crabgrass field behind her home to get my aerobic exercise before spending the rest of the day indoors among the women.
Seeing my shocked expression, Fauziya rushed to explain. “You insist on doing everything yourself: always carrying your own bags, always making your own plans, always going, going, going. How can your husband treat you like a woman if you don’t act like one?”
Her comment struck me in a sensitive place. Back home, when Muslim friends hosted large mealtime gatherings, I was always offered a seat smack in the middle of a long table, the women to my left and the men to my right—a border zone I jokingly referred to in private with Ismail as the transgendered seating area. My seating assignment confirmed that others recognized what I felt in the company of our Muslim friends: I didn’t quite belong with the men or the women. I was most comfortable in the margins between the women’s gentle laughter and quiet intimacies and the men’s long-winded political or religious debates. Now I could see that my sister-in-law recognized a similar quality in me. But what had I done to call my femininity into question? Then I remembered when we had first arrived at her house, as I struggled to maneuver my heavy suitcase up the front stairs in the dark, her husband, Adel, had backed up the stairs before me one by one with an outstretched hand, pleading with me to let him carry my bag. In my exhaustion I had waved him off and plowed forward, focused only on finding the shortest path to bed. My shins were still bruised where the suitcase had banged against them.
“You’re pregnant,” Fauziya said to me now, slowly and clearly. She held my gaze and searched my eyes for understanding. “You should put your feet up and rest. This is the time for your husband to serve you—but how can he do that if you never lie down?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling defensive and unsettled by her words. This pregnancy had brought on exhaustion like a leaden weight I dragged with me everywhere. The only way I knew how to deal with fatigue like this was to bend into it and press forward; I feared that if I
stopped for even a moment, it might swallow me whole. With a full-time job, a young daughter, a marriage, a fitness routine, and an active social life to maintain, I couldn’t afford to be sidelined. Even when Ismail had suggested this trip to Libya during my first trimester, I had not paused to consider how difficult it would be to make such a long journey while I was so nauseated and tired. Pregnancy, as I understood it, was no excuse for laziness. At my last prenatal visit, my doctor and I had brainstormed ways to combat my enervation—with a cup of coffee in the morning, a good diet, regular exercise. There was no reason I couldn’t continue running through my second trimester, she said. Perhaps I should also consider prenatal yoga for relaxation and stress relief; I seemed a little tense.
So I had signed up for a local prenatal yoga class. Once a week I left work just before 5 P.M. and drove to a nearby studio, a backpack of workout clothes slung over my shoulder and a rolled yoga mat beneath my arm. Expectant mothers in yoga gear unfolded from minivans and station wagons and convened in a room with gleaming hardwood floors and a wall of windows. We sat in a circle on colorful mats, our bottles of filtered water beside us. Our instructor, heavily pregnant with her second child, sat before us like a spandex-clad fertility goddess, her back ramrod straight, her skin glowing and flushed like she’d just stepped from a sauna. She was a feast of feminine curves: breasts the size of cantaloupes spilling from a tank top like a second skin, a watermelon belly she cradled with freshly manicured hands, buttocks so high and round it was as if she had breast implants in her rear end.
My Accidental Jihad Page 10