Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  Her grandchildren Tariq and Leena bickered in the backseat. “Be good,” she said in Arabic, and then remembered: they couldn’t understand her.

  Zainab wished Mona and her family were coming. Ahmed had said there weren’t enough tickets, and Mona had no one to watch the boys. What a shame, Khalid’s own sister not attending his graduation.

  Zainab’s thoughts moved to Khalid, a graduate at last—a surprise even to her. Even though he had smarts—masha’Allah—he was lazy and undisciplined. No self-control. But now Zainab could hold her head up when visiting her sister Anysa, whose words always intruded Zainab’s thoughts.

  “Eight years?” Anysa had said, “Whoever heard of someone taking eight years to finish university?” Then she added, “Inshallah he’ll finish. Maybe.”

  When Zainab admitted to her sister over a long-distance phone call that Khalid had married a foreign girl—more American than Arab—Zainab had to endure Anysa’s questions about the girl’s background and religion. What started as congratulations had twisted into condolences.

  Zainab thought of Khalid’s bride, that skinny girl with the tight clothing. Any Arab blood pumping in those veins had to be weak, diluted from living in America. Truth be told, it was hard to grasp why Khalid was drawn to her. Could she give him what he needed? Could she help him overcome his faults? Could the girl even cook?

  Zainab turned to Ahmed. “Is Khalid’s bride going to be there?”

  “Alison. Her name’s Alison. I told you, Yama, she’s graduating, too.”

  Ah, yes. Zainab remembered. “Masha’Allah.” By the grace of God.

  “Alison’s parents will be there, as well,” Ahmed said.

  Zainab clicked her tongue. She didn’t like this arrangement and preferred to receive them at home, where she could inspect the bride’s parents at her ease and show them her eldest son Ahmed owned his own house.

  From the freeway, all Zainab could see were the towering evergreens, not the houses or streets behind them. She felt swallowed up. In Palestine, there were trees, yes, but she could still see the stone walls and hillsides. Zainab sighed. She pulled out her string of blue prayer beads, which were smooth to the touch, their tassel soft and worn. The beads were from Jerusalem and had passed through her fingertips for years.

  By the time Ahmed parked, the sky was completely gray. Zainab’s joints were stiff as her feet hit the pavement. They joined a crowd, all walking in the same direction.

  Ahmed took her arm. “This is the university, Yama. Khalid and I studied here. Margaret and Alison, too.”

  The university was like its own city, orderly and contained. Ahmed guided Zainab through a rose garden and into a large stadium. He stayed by her side as she pulled herself up the cement steps, feeling the eyes of others upon her. Each time she turned to face an observer, the person looked away. Perhaps they were admiring the hand embroidery on her thob, which was indeed beautiful, its stitches compact and uniform. Any Palestinian woman of her generation would recognize the motif as a pattern from Bethlehem.

  Zainab sat between her son and Jenin. The stadium was a daunting place, immense and wide open. She missed the company of Mona and tugged at Ahmed’s sleeve. “Why didn’t you tell me this was outside?”

  He didn’t answer; he was busy talking to his wife. Zainab felt alone and glanced at Jenin next to her. She had the body of a woman but the face of a girl. May Allah bless her, Zainab thought.

  Still, Zainab would have rather sat next to Abed. The only person happier about Khalid finally graduating would have been his father, who had been intent on sending his sons to study abroad. If Abed were here, she would lean on him, and he would pat her hand and chuckle at her jokes. She could almost feel his hand on hers. How could Abed be gone five months now when she felt his presence so clearly?

  He had died in the morning—a heart attack over breakfast. There had been no warning, no illness, no hospital stay, no sickbed vigil. He was buried the same afternoon. To Allah we belong and to him we return.

  Zainab rubbed her eyes, looked at the sky, and noted the position of the sun behind the clouds. She turned to Ahmed. “I’m going to miss the noon prayer.”

  “You can make it up when we get to the restaurant,” he said.

  Zainab considered this. It would upset the order of her day, which was organized according to prayer times

  Ahmed placed a booklet in Zainab’s lap. “See that? It’s Khalid’s name.” Zainab squinted at the tiny row of letters, lined up like cross-stitch. Then Ahmed flipped through the pages. “There, Alison’s name.” Zainab glanced at the page and smiled at her son to make him happy.

  When music started and the graduates poured into the stadium, Ahmed patted his mother’s arm. “Yama, there’s Khalid!” Zainab craned her neck, but there was no way she could distinguish him among the sea of black gowns. Ahmed startled her again. “There’s Alison!” Zainab made a partial attempt to locate her but soon gave up.

  Next was an endless string of speeches. Zainab passed the time surveying the people around her. Her eyes roved in an arc and landed on a young couple. The man wore sandals with woolen socks, which made no sense. The woman wore a childish necklace with a tiny charm. It was clear foreigners didn’t appreciate gold. The couple shifted in their seats, and Zainab looked away.

  At last, the speeches ended, and the graduates approached the stage in two lines. A sequence then repeated itself over and over: a student stepped onto the stage and shook hands with a large man in a robe. Then the next student would do the same.

  As she waited to hear Khalid’s name, a drop of water hit her head, and a gentle rain began to fall. Surprisingly, no one got up. Zainab considered moving, but she didn’t want to miss Khalid. She adjusted her scarf and crossed her arms.

  Ahmed tapped her leg. “Khalid’s next.”

  Zainab sat upright and recognized the profile of her last-born son as he stepped onto the stage. Excitement rose inside her, a feeling that momentarily erased all worries and heartaches. As Khalid stepped off the stage, she clapped fervently and smiled through the misty rain.

  What followed was a great wave of relief. She would no longer have to worry about him finishing university, wasting all of his brother’s money and bringing shame to himself. Eight years was a long time to worry about the same matter. Even Zainab had her limits.

  At last, the rain stopped, the gray receded, and the sun appeared. Ahmed tapped her arm. “Yama, Alison’s next.”

  Zainab caught sight of the blond girl, her figure stepping onto the stage. In that second, Zainab realized this girl would now be woven into her life, just as Margaret was. This girl could give birth to more foreign-speaking grandchildren. What’s more, this girl could be called upon to take care of her poor mother-in-law when she was old. Would the girl do that?

  Zainab told herself to stop this indulgence, this self-worry. There was a more urgent matter: her youngest daughter Nadia, who was staying at her sister’s home in Amman. With her father gone, Allah yarhamhu—God bless his soul—and Zainab in America, Nadia was practically abandoned! This thought gave Zainab a shudder. Why hadn’t the American Embassy given Nadia a visa? Curse their fathers.

  Nadia was nineteen and Zainab’s last child to marry; she had just completed her two-year certificate in English translation at a college in Jordan. Zainab had worried about Nadia before, but it was a minor worry compared to so many others such as Khalid not graduating, Khalid marrying a foreigner, and Zainab’s fear of what would happen to her in old age. Finding a husband for Nadia would now be her top concern into which she would pour all of her hope and anxiety.

  Zainab engrossed herself in making plans for Nadia, her mind clicking away, pausing at images of nephews and neighbors, creating a mental catalogue of potential husbands.

  When the ceremony was over, Zainab finally rose out of her seat, her knees sore and achy. She eased down the steps with Margaret next to her, and they followed Ahmed outside the stadium, where he stopped by the entrance to the parking lot.r />
  “This is where we’re meeting Khalid and Alison,” he said.

  Zainab saw Khalid moving toward her in his black gown, his face radiant with joy. He reached her and embraced her with both arms. Zainab squeezed him back and then held his handsome face between her hands.

  “May God protect you and keep you safe!” she told him.

  She stepped back to admire her two sons. Bless them, both university graduates. Masha’Allah. It was no surprise foreign girls would want to marry them.

  A camera appeared and Margaret began directing the family for photos. In the first arrangement Zainab stood between her sons. As always, Margaret demanded that her subjects smile. Zainab lifted her chin, lips closed, a small act of defiance. Margaret continued to snap photos until Zainab felt weak from holding her head up and suppressing her smile.

  There was a tap on her shoulder. It was Khalid’s bride, also in a black gown. “As-salaam alaikum,” she said. “How are you?” Zainab nodded, and the girl continued in her stilted Arabic. “This is my mother and father.” She gestured to her parents next to her.

  “Salaam,” they mumbled.

  Zainab’s eyes scanned the girl’s mother, skinny like her daughter and wearing chin-length hair, small dots for earrings, and slim-fitting clothing. Clearly American.

  The father was a male version of his wife—the same startled expression and silvery gray hair. Could he truly be Syrian? The son of a Muslim? If so, this country had transformed him, just as she feared it would alter her sons.

  Zainab offered them tiny handshakes and an even tinier smile. Greetings floated in her head, but she stayed silent. Would she even mean them?

  The girl said something, but Zainab wasn’t in the mood to understand. She wasn’t in the mood to contemplate this bride of Khalid’s. Nor was she in the mood to stand on the concrete any longer. How did Zainab get into this situation? She felt trapped by the parking lot and by circumstances beyond her control. She turned to Ahmed and told him it was time to leave.

  Ahmed guided her again through the rose garden, now full of people foolishly posing for photos. Margaret stopped to take more pictures. How many photos did a person need? Zainab found herself positioned next to Khalid’s bride, who put her arm around her. Zainab stiffened as Margaret held up the camera. There would now be a photo to record this moment—a moment Zainab would prefer to forget. She adjusted her scarf and stared straight ahead.

  At the restaurant owned by her son, they were joined by Mona and her family. A flush of relief rose up in Zainab at the sight of her daughter and her grandsons. Then Zainab crept down to the basement office where Ahmed had left a prayer carpet for her. She prayed the afternoon prayer and made up for the noon prayer she had missed. She recited long sections from the Qur’an and offered lengthy supplications thanking God for Khalid’s graduation. She asked for guidance on how to cope with the foreign parents sitting in the dining room upstairs.

  Zainab sat on the floor with her palms up. Her mind wandered to the West Bank and to a string of faces, to those Palestinian girls Khalid could have married. She thought of a neighbor girl who would have been perfect. Zainab had known her parents as far back as she could remember. She knew the whole family, everything about them, the good and the bad. What did she know of this Alison? Or her parents? Nothing. Khalid was marrying into strangers. Foreign strangers.

  When Ahmed spoke of marrying Margaret so many years ago, Zainab had heard the news from Palestine.

  “This is the price you pay for sending your son to America,” her sister Anysa had said.

  Ahmed had reassured his mother that he wouldn’t marry Margaret without her approval. Of course, Zainab couldn’t say no to Ahmed, her eldest and most successful son. By the time he brought Margaret to Palestine, Zainab had gradually accepted the idea of a foreign wife for him.

  This time was different. One afternoon Khalid had announced his plans. Next, Zainab found herself hiding away in a basement, prolonging her prayer.

  She raised her arms and shook her fists. “Ya Allah, why did you do this to me?” Her arms dropped, and she rocked back and forth. She would not go through this with Nadia, she vowed. Thanks be to God. Nadia would marry someone close to the family, maybe a cousin, inshallah.

  “Yama.” It was Mona in the doorway. “The food is served.”

  Zainab stood, feeling the ache in her legs. She took her time folding the prayer carpet and moving to the dining room, where the meal had indeed been served. The table was spread with an adequate sampler of Middle Eastern foods: lamb kebabs stacked neatly, steaming rice pilaf, fried cauliflower, fattoush salad, and more. Unfortunately, the plate of grape leaves was meager, but it was too late to do anything about that. Zainab sat next to Ahmed, who said, “Yama, Alison’s parents want to know what you think of America.”

  “What do I think of America?” she repeated.

  The table was quiet and everyone was leaning in, looking at her, waiting for her answer. She spoke quietly and leaned toward Ahmed, who translated her reply. “America is good.”

  Everyone laughed high and loud; Zainab wondered if they were making fun of her. The conversation continued on without her, noisy talking in English. She tapped Ahmed’s arm. “What are you saying?”

  “I was telling Alison’s parents,” he said, gesturing to the couple, their faces finally softening, “I was telling them how much Khalid and I enjoyed studying here, how much we have benefited, how much we appreciate America.”

  Zainab grunted and pulled back from the table. Perhaps she should have said the truth: America was full of disbelievers, and the country was pulling her sons away from her.

  Chapter 4

  The house was steeped in Arabic discussion. Family members filled the living room, all attempting to raise their voices above the others. Margaret had escaped to the armchair in her bedroom by telling them she was tired—the only acceptable excuse for leaving the throes of family interaction.

  The mother had moved in with her and Ahmed soon after her husband had died, turning their home into the center of familial activity. The blessing of having the largest home in the family had turned into a cruel trick. Mona dropped by to see her mother nearly every day with her entourage of boys. Khalid came for rolled grape leaves, stuffed zucchini, or whatever else the mother was preparing. More distant family members popped in, as well. Once, Margaret had tried to determine the link to Ibrahim and Salim, who increasingly showed up for meals and conversation, but any uncertain relation was simply referred to as a “cousin.”

  “We’re all from the same village,” Ahmed said with a shrug. “That makes us related.” He was referring to the family village in Palestine that no longer existed and only the mother had seen. “The point is,” he said, “if we have a conflict outside the family, they’d stand with us.”

  So there it was. The possibility of tribal warfare earned them free meals. These explanations used to fascinate Margaret. Now she rolled her eyes.

  The strident Arabic reached the bedroom, where Margaret sat in her armchair. Her cat rubbed against her leg. “Are you hiding, too?” she asked her.

  Margaret looked at her watch. It was almost time to leave. The noise from the living room had increased. Were they arguing? Had another relative arrived? Soon none of this would matter.

  Her daughter Leena appeared in the doorway, and her eyes fixed on the large zippered tote bag on the floor. “Mama, are you going?” At three, Leena knew the bag was a signal that her mother was going out. Margaret reached for her daughter and held her in her lap. Smelling Leena’s hair, Margaret explained, as she did every week, that she was going to meet other mothers from the cul-de-sac.

  “I wanna come.”

  She picked up her bag and walked down the hallway, with Leena following behind. In the living room, the mother was engrossed in an exchange with Ahmed, the cousins, Mona, and her husband—all of them sitting in a circle of overlapping speech and gestures. In their hands were tiny cups of Turkish coffee on the verge of spilling.
The tone had turned serious—the topic politics, most likely. Margaret predicted the gathering would go late into the evening, no one willing to be the first to say good-bye.

  She made eye contact with Ahmed. “Honey, you need to take Leena.” He got up and detached their child from Margaret’s leg. She said good-bye to her children, announced her salaams to the rest of the family, and gave Ahmed a wink in lieu of a kiss. On the porch she paused, her eyes fluttering closed as she inhaled. She walked down the driveway, past the jasmine plant with only a single white bloom.

  Stepping into the cul-de-sac, Margaret entered a world of nuclear families, tidy lawns, and normalcy. She wasn’t going far—just across the street.

  It was seven o’clock and still light out. The neighborhood was showing early signs of summer: a couple strolling hand in hand, the man next door trimming his hedge. He looked up at Margaret passing by. “Running away from home?” he called out.

  Were her feelings that obvious? Then she remembered her tote bag, which looked more like an overnight bag. “Not today!” she called back.

  Margaret reached Jan’s house, where the impatiens along the walkway spilled onto the bricks. It reminded Margaret how far behind she was with her own gardening. Jan answered the door with a perky, “Hello!” Scented candles flickered in the entry, and soft music played. Margaret followed Jan into the dining room, where Jackie and Josephine had already spread out their photos and albums. They called their weekly group “Three J’s and an M.”

  “You look fabulous,” Josephine said.

  Margaret touched her red hair. “Thanks.” Ever since she had stopped wearing the headscarf, the women repeatedly complimented her. Jackie had even declared Margaret “liberated.” It had been a year, but she still felt self-conscious, though never as much as on that first day when she had stepped out of the house without a scarf. She had felt so exposed and imagined the cul-de-sac would split open and swallow her up. After all, Margaret had worn hijab for nearly ten years, adopting it the year after she had converted to Islam.