Love, InshAllah

by Nura Maznavi

  Mohamed and I smiled at each other nervously. He offered his arm to escort me, and together we stepped out of the flat to begin our new lives together. His brother’s wife came behind us and began to zagrat loudly, the trilling sound Arab women make during celebrations, to announce our presence. Heads popped out of other flats immediately to congratulate us with wide smiles as we took the long walk down to the car. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and everything seemed surreal.

  When we got to the car, I almost began to cry. Earlier in the day, Mohamed’s brother had decorated it entirely, from front to back, in flowers and streamers in the style that I had admired as I watched other brides drive through the streets of Cairo. It made me feel like a true Egyptian bride.

  We got into the car, which was blaring wedding music from its open windows. As we drove, my soon-to-be sister-in-law leaned from the passenger side window to zagrat some more, and my soon-to-be brother-in-law tapped the horn to alert people on the street that a bride and groom were passing. People yelled congratulations to us from passing cars and from the sidewalks, hooting and clapping and wishing us a thousand blessings: “Alf mabroooooook!”

  We arrived only three hours late for the ceremony, practically nothing by Egyptian standards. It was held beneath lit palm trees in a cafe on a bank of the Nile River. Because my wali was back in the States, Mohamed’s best friend stood in his place. After we exchanged vows and signed our marriage contract—punctuated by many more trills from the women—Mohamed and I slipped off to stand together on a bridge and look at the river flowing below us.

  “We’re married,” I said, as we looked at each other in amazement.

  “Yeah,” he answered with a huge smile. “We are.”

  Mohamed doesn’t speak Spanish and he’s never eaten a taco in his life, but he’s willing to spout heavily accented and antiquated declarations of love straight out of a Castilian Spanish-Arabic dictionary from the 1920s, and to eat the chiles rellenos and lengua de res I make for him. And every once in a while, he takes me in his arms and tells me that I am his media naranja—the other half to his orange.

  I spent so much time looking for what I thought would make me happy, but in the end, God had my soul mate waiting for me in the unlikeliest of places. I guess I was always meant for a Cairene kind of love.

  It Will Be Beautiful

  Yasmine Khan

  When I was eight years old, I had only two goals in life: I would become a professional Frisbee player, and I would marry MacGyver. Instead, adulthood led me to a career of desk jobs, and a series of potential relationships left me wondering why I even bothered to open myself up to men other than MacGyver in the first place.

  Not that there was a shortage of men. There was, for example, the man who emailed me via my blog, who was a Pakistani Pashtun, like I was; he spoke both Pashto and Hindko, the languages of my heritage, but we differed too widely in other aspects. There was the man about whom, on a flight to Spain for vacation one year, I created a pros/cons list in my notebook (as the daughter of an accountant, I would have created a spreadsheet had I had my laptop), but the cons won. There was the man who wanted to marry me, yet when I asked him to travel to my home in San Francisco so that we could finally meet in person, his response was a bewildering “I don’t see why I should.”

  By the time I turned twenty-eight, in early 2009, I was weary of the search. That spring, I took to heart the reminder of my cousin, who is also my best friend: “Your primary commitment is not to any man.You are already in a committed relationship with yourself,” she pointed out. Her words reminded me to step back and focus on personal dreams that had nothing to do with falling in love, getting married, or creating a family. I had thought seriously about attending graduate school for years, but now I finally applied for master’s programs. While waiting to hear back on the results of my applications, I continued working—fundraising for an educational institution—which included national travel, twelve-hour workdays, and a sharp decrease in my social life.

  By winter, preparations were under way for my little sister’s wedding, and chaos descended as I struggled to juggle wedding planning with my professional commitments. In December, I went on a business trip to Las Vegas, the hometown of my future brother-in-law, Ali. I shamelessly mentioned Ali and his well-established family to everyone I encountered, smiling at the recognition and sheer delight that crossed their faces.

  On my last night there, I curled up in an armchair in my hotel room and laughingly wrote on his Facebook wall, “Ali! Why didn’t you tell me that all I needed for a full background check on you was to come to Las Vegas?!”

  Just minutes later, I had an email notification from Facebook: One of Ali’s best friends, Yasser, a stranger to me, had commented on my wall post, “Yasmine, were you at the event this evening in Vegas?”

  “I try not to discuss work on Facebook,” I replied immediately. “But yes, I was. P.S. Ali is my future brother-in-law!”

  Yasser expressed surprise at what a small world it was, having noticed me at the event without knowing my connection to his friend. He offered some recommendations for local breakfast places, then added, “Why didn’t Ali tell me he had family coming to town? I would have given you a full background report!”

  Two weeks later, my family and I traveled to Portland, Oregon, where Ali’s family hosted the wedding reception. Our first night in the city included an informal dinner at a local restaurant, where two dozen of us settled around a sprawling table. Yasser and I, formally introduced for the first time, ended up next to each other after a musical chairs–style shuffling of seats; he admitted months later that he had been silently praying to God for such a happy accident as soon as I walked through the door. Sitting side by side, we talked about languages, Pakistan, Bollywood films, stories about my brother-in-law, their mutual friends, Yasser’s leadership role in an organization whose work I admired, his mother’s death from cancer just a few months prior—and a lot about my job, the last thing I wanted to discuss while on vacation. I steered the conversation as much as I could toward lighter subjects, enjoying our smooth banter and repartee.

  The next day was the wedding reception. There was a grand entrance, complete with music and Arabic chanting; a fountain of colorful punch; dabka, a feet-stamping Arab folk dance; and—my favorite part!—cake cutting with an heirloom Palestinian sword. But mostly what I remember is turning my head at one point to see Yasser, and sending him an informal wave and a casual greeting: “How goes it?” He immediately took that as a signal to approach my table, where he spent most of our conversation expressing his admiration for the organization I worked for.

  “Please let me know if you need help with future events in Vegas,” he said, giving me his phone number. I tapped it into my BlackBerry, then paused awkwardly. Was I supposed to reciprocate? The conversation had been mainly work related; clearly, he was interested only in my job. I gave him my phone number, too, chalking it up to professional networking. Inwardly, though, I was intrigued and wondered if our brief exchanges could lead to something more.

  The wedding ended; friends and family returned home to reminisce over photographs and shared memories. I added Yasser as a friend on Facebook and was promptly invited to click over to his profile so that I could view the photographs he had taken at my sister’s wedding. In addition to the images I expected, I was greeted by an “About” section on his profile that listed him as single but that added simply, “My greatest pride is to be my daughter’s father.” Huh? I clicked through albums documenting the growth of a little baby into a little girl with a confident, dimpled smile. She seemed like a happy, outgoing child, whether alone or photographed with her father.

  Even as I wondered what I was getting into, Yasser’s one-line “About” section helped reassure me as to the sort of person he was. Any man who was proud to be a father, who seemed to be single-handedly raising a child—and well, at that—was worth taking a second look at. Divorce and single parenthood didn’t seem to be good enou
gh reasons to wipe a man off the list. In all my years of making lists of the qualities that I was looking for in a potential spouse, I had never considered adding, “Must never have been previously married. Must have no children.” How could I have listed those as deal breakers, when I had never thought they would pertain to my relationships in the first place?

  Still, my rationalizations notwithstanding—It’s not as if I’m marrying him today; I’m just opening myself up to possibilities again; and He’s Ali’s friend; therefore he must be a good person—I couldn’t help but fire off an email to my cousin the next day: “He’s my age, and HE HAS A SIX-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER!” Her response calmed me: “That’s really unexpected, but maybe he’ll tell you the story one of these days.” I reminded myself to take it one day at a time, get to know the man, and just see where things went.

  Slowly, we connected over Facebook comments, emails every few days, and intermittent text messaging. Many of our conversations were about books, sharing recommendations and discussing novels we had both read. One night in late January, as we wound down a Gmail Chat conversation, he said, “I have a book of Allama Iqbal’s poems in English. I can send it to you, if you want it. Let me know, and I’ll drop it in the mail.”

  I paused for a few minutes—sharing one’s address is still such an intimate thing, even in this digital day and age—but then sent him my mailing address, along with a note, only half joking, “I’m trusting that you’re not some scary stalker.”

  The book arrived a few days later. I had to acknowledge receipt of the gift, so I gulped, picked up the telephone, and called Yasser for the first time. I reached him as he was picking up his daughter and her friends from school. While he and I spoke, I could hear little-girl voices chattering in the background, and the sound made me smile, even as it rattled me. What the hell am I getting myself into? Still, our conversation flowed lightly and easily. I laughed often and did not feel at all awkward. When I hung up and squinted at my phone, I was shocked to find the call had lasted an entire hour.

  Our next phone conversation lasted two hours, and was about more than just books. We talked about our families, childhoods, and work. I was baffled. Who was this man? He was only four months older than I, but he had already been through life experiences I was nowhere close to encountering or understanding. What was the story of his daughter and his divorce? I could not understand how I felt so at ease talking to him over the phone and through emails, when I was inconsistent in communicating with even my closest friends, who shook their heads at my “Great Wall of Yazzo,” the impenetrable fortress surrounding my heart.

  Over the next several months, Yasser and I discussed shared interests through emails and Gmail Chat, and our sporadic but lengthy phone conversations continued. I still had questions and concerns, but I preferred to focus on getting to know him organically. In mid-May, I attended an event in Southern California and invited Yasser to join me. Seeing him after months apart did not bring any of the disconnection I had feared between our online and in-person interactions. Wholly comfortable, we sat talking for hours in our hotel lobby before the evening program.

  We spent the next day at the beach. The weather was gray, the company impeccable. We prayed on the sand, walked the piers, talked endlessly. I treated Yasser to his first gelato. Coming from the desert, he was mesmerized by the water and greenery. I was charmed by his attention to things that I often took for granted

  We parted at the airport, after expressing our mutual appreciation for the shared weekend. If our farewell felt a bit stiff and formal to me, it was because we still had not addressed the proverbial elephant in the room. Half an hour later, however, my BlackBerry lit up with an email from him. What? He just dropped me off! Baffled, I clicked on the note:

  “Salaam, Yasmine. I remember you once wrote that eligible Muslim guys are too afraid to show direct interest in you. I’m writing to let you know that I’m interested in you. I feel we have great rapport and I am very impressed by your character (among many other things about you). I’m not seeking a commitment now, but rather an opportunity for us to get to know one another more. If the feeling is not mutual, I hope we can still be friends.”

  I was relieved (finally, thank God, an acknowledgment!) and panicked (how will this work?!), amid a maelstrom of other emotions. I paced the airport gates, bought hot chocolate to calm my unsettled nerves, then sat in an empty corner and slowly, carefully tapped out a response just before boarding my flight:

  “Thank you for the note, and for letting me know of your interest. Yes, it’s refreshing to get this out in the open. You’re someone I’d like to get to know better, too—and while I have to be very honest and admit that there are things about this situation, on both sides, that make me nervous about how it could be complicated, I’m open to seeing where this could go.”

  Yasser was relieved, and elated. He wrote back expressing his willingness to address any concerns I had. I thought it was too early to talk about my misgivings about being a second mother to his child, and my lack of knowledge about his previous relationship, so instead I admitted that geography was a big concern. I would be starting graduate school that fall, and I had no intention of leaving the Bay Area for the next two years (if ever, I added in my head). That was nothing to be concerned about, Yasser replied. He loved the Bay Area and its Muslim community, and would have no qualms about relocating there. He also shared what he was looking for in a potential spouse—a woman of character, one who would speak the truth, have a forgiving heart, and love and accept his daughter.

  I added my own preferences: a relationship that was built on flexibility, open communication, and equal partnership. A man who would eschew stubbornness and pride—I was Pashtun, and knew all too well that my hardheaded people came preprogrammed with such qualities!—in favor of compromise and trust. A man who would respect my work in cultural competency and community building, and would understand that, for me, “community” meant not just the Muslim community or the South Asian community, but the community at large. I wrote, “My first priority is always, always my family and friends, of course—but my heart is big enough to hold the world.”

  Even as my friends grinned excitedly at my updates about Yasser over the next several months, I wondered if I was completely insane to be considering marrying a man who was divorced and raising a six-year-old daughter.

  I knew Yasser was a good man, and felt that we had the potential to grow into a solid relationship. Still, I could not help but be paralyzed some days, questioning what the future would hold: Would he be able to find a job in the Bay Area so that he could move there? Would his daughter accept me? How would she feel about another female’s sharing Yasser’s attention? Did I even feel ready to be a mother? (No. But, then again, does anyone ever feel ready?) Could I be a compassionate and capable mother? And how would my parents feel about this? Whenever I felt unsettled or unsure, I went for long walks in downtown Berkeley or along the pier at the marina.

  As we got to know each other more deeply, I began asking Yasser more questions about his daughter, whom he affectionately called Lemon. I initiated conversations about her, expressing interest in her personality and the goings-on in his day-to-day life as a single parent. He answered my questions in depth, and tried to dispel concerns I had about playing a maternal role. But even though he was confident, I couldn’t help but be worried.

  “This relationship is not just about you and me,” I said. “It’s also about Lemon.”

  Meanwhile, though, it helped to hear his stories about her: “I am puzzled by Lemon’s fashion sense: hijab and knee-length shorts.” Later: “I want to see Iron Man 2. Lemon wants to see Shrek Forever. Guess who wins that debate and gets ice cream?”

  It was clear that he adored her. Beyond the photos I had seen and the stories I had heard, though, I knew nothing about her, nor did she about me. In June 2010, she turned seven years old and I texted Yasser to say, “Happy birthday to Lemon!” but made no attempt to speak to her directly. I
was wary of direct contact; he and I were still in the early stages of our relationship, and both of us felt it was too soon to involve her.

  Instead, we focused on sharing the details of our respective days, and I smiled, despite my misgivings, at how huge a role fatherhood played in Yasser’s life: He ironed Lemon’s school uniform and made her lunch; helped her with school projects and ensured she hadn’t “forgotten” to complete her homework; mopped the floors and vacuumed the carpets every weekend, finding Lemon’s dolls and books and UNO cards wedged between the sofa and the wall.

  As we became closer, we discussed topics such as faith, parenting, education, money, sex, gender relations, career ambitions, and more, trying our best to balance “serious” conversations—a necessary evil, we decided—with our usual lighthearted exchanges. Yasser was forthcoming with answers to any questions I had about his previous marriage to Lemon’s mother, with whom Lemon spent summers on the East Coast. Beyond our initial, in-depth conversations, though, we rarely talked about his ex-wife, choosing to focus instead on our own unfolding story.

  One morning, I left Yasser a rambling voicemail in Hindko, the dialect I speak with my family, which some Pakistanis dismiss as “not a real language.” I knew he wouldn’t understand most of it, but he responded, “I enjoyed listening to that five times.” Hindko is a deeply personal part of my heritage and family life, and I was moved nearly to tears when he approached my voicemail with such sincere curiosity, joy, and openheartedness. His request to hear me speak Hindko again removed some of the highest walls around my heart. For me, that exchange was a milestone, unexpected and sweet.

  In November he came to visit, so that we could see each other for the first time since May. Spending time with him in person felt just like talking to him online or over the phone, with the added benefit of his physical presence. As we explored San Francisco together, Yasser took in the organic farmers’ markets, Vespa scooters, colorful graffiti, and architecture, and smiled. “Being here makes me feel like I know you more and understand the person you are.” I felt a tremendous sense of loss when he left. I had not expected how quickly I would become used to his presence. All of a sudden, my happy-go-lucky, joyful life felt lonelier with him gone.