by Nura Maznavi
My mother was concerned when I first told her that I was interested in the photographer from my friend’s wedding. Like Javed, my ex-husband was also a Pakistani American and three years younger than I. But that was where the similarities ended, and I knew that when my family met Javed, they would like him.
On his next visit to Malaysia, two months after his initial trip, we spent a week with my parents and siblings in Penang. During his stay, they talked to him and observed his interactions with my daughter and me. They were visibly impressed when, on his first day there, my daughter flung herself at him, giving him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.
My sister let out an audible, awestruck gasp: “Wow! She refuses to give me a kiss!”
On the last night of his visit, we all went out for dinner. Javed and I sat across the table from my mother. Javed tried all night to strike up a conversation with her, but most of his questions received only one-line replies.
When the meal was over and we were about to leave, my mother finally blurted out what had clearly been on her mind throughout the evening: “So, what are your plans?”
Without missing a beat, he looked her in the eyes and said these beautiful words: “Well, Auntie, God willing, with your permission, I’d like to marry Aida within a year.”
To this day, he swears that every future Muslim mother-in-law wants to hear the following expressed:1. God’s supreme authority (only if God wills)
2. The mother’s supreme authority over the couple (permission)
3. A desire to get married (the only legitimate goal)
4. Time frame (too short = unrealistic; too long = noncommittal)
With a lopsided smile on her face, my mother said, “Okay.”
On a bright, sunny Malaysian June morning just ten months after we first met, Javed and I were married, surrounded by close family and friends.
After our marriage, we lived in Malaysia for a year, and then moved to Blacksburg, Virginia. The first year of marriage was one of learning for us both. Javed’s calming voice tempers my impatience, his impulsive plans break me from my rigid adherence to schedules, and his happiness with his house-husband role allows me to focus on my career.
I am continually amazed that of all the people on this earth, God brought this one man to my doorstep, my perfect complement. As my husband likes to say, we plan and God laughs.
A Cairene Kind of Love
Molly Elian Carlson
When I first converted to Islam, I was certain I would be able to find another Spanish-speaking convert to marry. My profile on a popular Muslim matrimonial site stated my high expectations: “Spanish-speaking Muslimah looking for a Spanish-speaking Muslim to marry—must not be divorced or already have a wife.”
In return, I received many angry emails about my being “picky.”
“Haram, sister, haram, do you think a Spanish speaker will be a better husband? Marry an Arab; he will teach you Arabic. Marry me; I will make you so happy.”
“What is wrong with a divorced man? Allah forgive you!”
And, of course, the email banishing me to the fires of hell for refusing to consider polygamy: “Allah gave men the right; it is a Sunnah and I seek to be a better Muslim. I am only following in the footsteps of our beloved Prophet, peace be upon him.”
I loved to answer these emails and often engaged in lively debates, but I found very few Spanish-speaking Muslims who fit what I was looking for in a husband. Latinos were one of the groups with the highest rates of conversion to Islam, but the majority of the converts were women. Just like me.
I grew up in a Latino community in Minnesota, attending Spanish-speaking churches and spending holidays with my neighbors. Even though I wasn’t ethnically Latina, I picked up the language and the culture so well that most people never knew it. I was one of the few bridges between Spanish and English speakers in the Santo Niño community, and I became an activist for their rights as immigrants. My mom was so certain that I would marry a Latino and have Spanish-speaking children that she talked about taking Spanish classes so she could communicate with my future in-laws.
During my last two years of university, I moved from Minnesota to Arizona, throwing myself into my studies and thinking that my search for love would be better now that I was in a state with more Latinos. I met my best friend, Amira, an American-born Egyptian girl, who promised to find me a good Egyptian boy to marry.
“Oh, no, no Egyptians for me, thank you. I mean, you’re delightful, dear, but I’ve seen Egyptian men and the way they treat their wives. I’ve even been told by Egyptian women to steer clear of Egyptian men!” I told her.
I especially gave my wali, the Pakistani man who took the role of my father in Islam, a hard time about it. He would beg me, “Beta, does he have to speak Spanish? I mean, there are many good, non-Spanish brothers looking for wives. Think about them, please.”
But I was unrelenting. I was certain that the only man who would understand my desire to dance through my living room to cumbias and bachatas, partake of a Sunday-morning menudo with me, and laugh with me at the telenovelas I was secretly addicted to would be a Latino.
I met some, but they never worked out. One was much too much of a mama’s boy, too busy being a minority and feeling sorry for himself. Another acted like a priest who had taken vows of poverty. I’m all for giving to charity from your wealth for the sake of Allah, but expecting your wife to live on ramen noodles? Um, no thanks.
I began to feel hopeless in my quest for the perfect Latino husband, so I focused on my final semester of school. That’s when Amira made a suggestion:
“Check out this guy on MySpace. He’s pretty cute, mashAllah, and he’s religious too,” she said casually.
“Sure, he’s cute, but he’s Egyptian, Amira.” I laughed when I saw his profile.
“Hey!You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said, in mock offense.
“Sorry, dearest, but you know how I feel about Egyptians. And his name is Mohamed—you know we promised to find husbands with more original names,” I said, reminding her of our pact. We had giggled about the multitudes of Ahmeds and Mohameds in the Muslim world, and had pinky-sworn to marry people with more original names.
“The least we could hold out for is an Omar or an Abdul-Rahman,” I protested.
“Or a Hamza,” she agreed.
“But . . . he is cute,” I sighed, looking at his pictures again.
“He’s a good guy—give him a chance. An Egyptian man isn’t half bad if you train him well.”
I added him to my friends list on MySpace but blew him off for months. I was certain he was a player, because no man who looked that cute could be anything but. Still, I found myself checking his profile for new pictures and admiring his good looks. I also noticed that his bulletins were always religious, never fluffy. One day, seven months after adding him, I decided to consult with him about an article I had found on Islam. We spent hours talking the first time we chatted online. I was impressed with his knowledge and his respectful reaction when I challenged his views.
Soon I had him on my instant messenger and was chatting with him while I was in class or during my night shifts at a hotel, my part-time job during college. He made a point of being available throughout my shift because I was working a dangerous time slot in a sketchy neighborhood. I was touched by his caring and found myself looking forward to talking to him each day. We talked about culture, politics, and the differences between cultural practices and real Islam. I began to deeply respect his mind and his ideas.
One day, after we’d spent all afternoon chatting, it was time for the dawn prayer for him in Cairo. He remembered that one of the things I had talked about wanting to hear was the call to prayer in a Muslim city, since mosques in America are not allowed to broadcast it outside. He took the microphone from his computer and went to the window of his room so I could hear the adhan being called.
As the voices of the muezzin rang out and “Allahu akbar” echoed off the buildings, I found myself
in tears. He came back to the computer and heard me. “Are you crying? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I tried to act like I wasn’t. “No [sniffle].”
“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
“I’m fine, but it means so much to me that you remembered.”
“How could I forget?”
It was that moment that broke the final wall between him and my heart. I tried to deny that anything had changed, but I found myself thinking of him at random moments. While studying, I’d remember a joke he had told me the day before. When I awoke in the morning, I’d wonder if he was online yet. Little by little, he became closer to me and, against my better judgment, I fell for him.
I called Amira to tell her about my nascent feelings, thinking that she’d tease me, we’d laugh, and I’d snap out of it.
But instead, she burst into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded, indignant.
“Oh, no, I can’t tell you. I promised.”
“You promised who what? There is no way you can say that and then not tell me. That’s treason!”
She continued laughing, but finally admitted, “Mohamed wrote to me two months ago to say that he really liked you. He wanted me to know he was going to start talking with you more regularly, but that his intentions were honorable. And then he bound me, by Allah, to not say anything to you about it. It was so hard not to tell you, but I couldn’t. He loves you, I think.”
“Two months ago? That was when we had just begun to talk—how could he love me? Are you serious?” I asked.
“I’m dead serious, habibti, but he’s being good about it. I mean, he told me his intentions. I say go for it.”
It was too much to consider, too quickly.
“How? It’s online—it isn’t even real.”
“You’re the one who called me to admit you had a crush on him, and now you’re saying it’s not real?”
“Well . . . ”
“You’re coming to Egypt this summer with me for my wedding; you can meet him there and see where things go. He’s a good guy.”
“Yes, but . . . he’s Egyptian. And his name is Mohamed!” I protested weakly.
Amira laughed. “Look at me—I’m marrying an Ahmed!”
The next day, I pinned Mohamed down online.
“All right, I can’t do this anymore. If you want to meet me while I’m in Egypt, I need to know what your intentions are.”
“Molly, I really like you,” he answered. “I think I want to marry you, but I want us to meet each other face-to-face before we make any decisions. My intentions are honorable. How do you feel about me?”
“I like you, too,” I admitted. “But this needs to be serious, because I don’t want to get hurt.”
“I’d never hurt you.”
“Good, then don’t. InshAllah, we will meet when I come to Egypt and see where things go.”
That day, he started calling me habibti.
After I graduated from college, I flew to Turkey with my mom to celebrate with a Mediterranean cruise. After my father left us, it was just her and me, and she was the closest person in the world to me. She had always been right about my life decisions thus far, so I wanted her to meet Mohamed and give me her advice. She knew a little about him, but I kept my feelings close to my heart. I was still nervous and unsure of what the future held for me in terms of my relationship with him.
Four days into the trip, we landed on the shores of Egypt, where he was waiting.
He met us directly at the door of the port of entry into the city of Alexandria. I’d like to say that rainbows erupted and symphonies played when we first made eye contact, but the truth is, I was so nervous that my teeth chattered and I couldn’t stop talking, or grinning like an idiot, until about five hours into our first day together.
It was very early in the morning when we arrived, so almost nothing was open. We were a group of five altogether: the driver; our tour guide, who was a close friend of Mohamed; my mother; Mohamed; and me. Finding that none of the sightseeing locations were open yet, we stopped to have a typical Egyptian breakfast of ful and ta’miyya sandwiches at a small café.
We ate at a leisurely pace and enjoyed the morning’s cool weather. I was still so nervous that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wasn’t sure if I should eat or talk, look at Mohamed or not look at him, and so confused that I often did all of those things at once. I was captivated by him but painfully shy and embarrassed, and I could tell that he felt the same way.
After we had finished breakfast, it was still too early to enter the Qaitbay Citadel, so we set off on a walk along the wharf next to it so we could talk alone. My mom and the rest of the group trailed not far behind us, though they kept a respectful distance.
Standing on the rocks with Mohamed, I decided that I wanted to get closer to the edge and look into the water, but as I inched forward, I slipped on some algae. I would have landed in the water had he not caught me. Afterward, I wasn’t sure which hurt worse, my scraped foot or my bruised pride, but at least he knew exactly what he was getting into with clumsy, accident-prone me. There was no false advertising there.
Mohamed had convinced one of his best friends, a tour guide, to give us a private tour of Alexandria and Cairo, but I was too engrossed in shyly watching Mohamed to listen to what his friend said during our expedition. Later, as we descended into the catacombs of Kom el Shoqafa, I slipped for a second time on some gravel and would have fallen again if Mohamed hadn’t been next to me.
As we ascended from the gloom back into the bright light of day, I heard my first call to prayer in a Muslim city, with Mohamed at my side. I had never heard anything as beautiful as the echo of the voices around us. Looking up into Mohamed’s face, I felt at peace with myself, and I could picture the possibility of a future with him.
My mother approved of Mohamed and spoke repeatedly of how respectful and kind he was. After our two-day excursion in Egypt had ended and we were back on the cruise ship, she turned to me.
“You’re going to marry him, aren’t you?” she asked. Until that point, I hadn’t even mentioned the possibility to her, but her question shocked me into complete honesty.
“Maybe.”
“I would be okay with that. He’s a good guy,” she threw out casually, too consumed with hanging her clothes to see how bowled over I was by her announcement. I knew that she had gotten along well with him, but I hadn’t expected her to be so accepting, so quickly, of the idea of her only child getting married.
For the rest of the trip, we talked about the future, and I spent each day eagerly anticipating the day I’d fly from Athens, the destination of our cruise, back to Cairo to spend the summer with Amira.
During the five weeks I was with Amira, I helped her plan her wedding, experienced more of Egypt, and fit in as many chaperoned “dates” as I could with Mohamed. He and I almost single-handedly sustained two mobile-phone companies in Cairo buying credits for our marathon conversations about our expectations surrounding life, love, and marriage.
I met his family and felt completely at home with them. His father and youngest sister took me to Al-Azhar and Khan el-Khalili. His father charmed me with his smile, and by the end of the afternoon his sister and I had become best friends. I met his mother and his older sister on another evening, and I loved them as well. Later, Mohamed told me that his mother had accepted me as a daughter from the moment she saw how much I loved Mohamed and how kind I was to everyone. She said that was all she needed to know about me.
During this time, I prayed about the choices I had to make and placed my trust in God to show me the right way. I offered a special prayer called istikharah:
“O God, if this decision is good for me and for my religion, then ease the path and bless it for me, and if this decision is wrong for me and for my religion, then please remove me from it, and remove it from me, and bless me with something better.”
In response, I dreamed that Mohamed saved me from a life witho
ut Islam and brought me to heaven. When I woke the next morning, I knew that he was my soul mate and a marriage between us would be blessed.
At the end of June, I was sitting with Mohamed and his family, all crammed Egyptian-style into his father’s ancient Mercedes-Benz, drinking cane juice. I asked, “So, it’s pretty certain that we’re going to get married, right?”
He nodded.
“So, why don’t we get married on the Fourth of July?”
He choked midswallow, realizing that the date I had proposed was only four days away. I knew it was quick, but I rationalized that July 4 was a national holiday in America, and assuming that we settled there, we could always count on having the day off of work and an evening of fireworks to celebrate our love. He acquiesced to my request and promised to have everything ready. So, in a break from the norm, I proposed to my husband, not the other way around. Instead of having a romantic dinner, we drank cane juice with his family, and instead of a ring, we had an understanding and mutual acceptance that meant so much more. From the beginning, everyone had assumed that if we fit, there would be a marriage, so no one—not his family, not Amira, not my mother—was surprised by the announcement.
On the day of the fourth, Mohamed took me to his father’s flat, where his youngest sister did my makeup and tied my hijab in a fancy way as I shook with nerves and hyperventilated. I had spent the two days before the wedding suffering from a bad case of food poisoning, and the night before praying that I would be well enough for the wedding. It wasn’t until I put on my wedding dress—the prettiest abaya I could find on short notice—that I realized I was actually getting married. Forever-and-ever-amen married. I didn’t doubt my decision, but I had never imagined it would happen so quickly.
Mohamed arrived, looking spectacular in a black suit, and with him came some of the family I hadn’t met yet. As we posed for photographs, I took a moment to mourn the fact that my own mother was not with me. She had returned to the United States after our cruise and wouldn’t be able to return for the wedding, but I felt happy knowing that she approved of my decision.