Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  “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.

  Chapter 10

  One of the trees in the cul-de-sac made Zainab think of the old lemon tree. She sat in her son’s yard and stared across the road at it. There was something about the tree’s shape and the cinder blocks arranged around it that called up memories of the old tree. It had stood behind Zainab’s childhood home, a house that was only a blur now, like a dream. There was nothing but her fading memory to remind her of that home in the village. Some families had keys to the old stone houses they had left behind, an actual key they could hold and grieve over. The key to Zainab’s family home had been lost along with so many other things—the olive trees, her mother’s hand-embroidered thobs, and the deed to the land. Not that it would have made one stitch of a difference anyway.

  In the refugee camp, Zainab’s mother had bemoaned the loss of her lemon tree and the fresh juice it had provided for their salads. Of all the things they had lost, Zainab wondered, why did her mother focus on that? Allahu alim. Only God knew.

  Eventually, the United Nations turned the sea of tents into a permanent camp of small boxy cement houses. There, at their refugee home, her father planted a new lemon tree, one much smaller. Truth be told, Zainab’s memories were fragmented. She didn’t know which lemon tree she remembered, the original or the replacement.

  Her brother, Waleed, bless him, still lived in that house in the camp, as he had stayed on and raised his family there. Maybe he was picking lemons from the tree at that moment. No, he would be sleeping. The time was upside down in America.

  Clouds moved across the sky, and Zainab closed her eyes. If she were in Palestine, she would walk down the narrow alley that led to her brother’s home and have morning coffee with him and their mother, Hajja Zarifa, who also still lived in that house. Zainab would pass through the gate, into the modest courtyard, and past the lemon tree. Her brother’s face, round and wide like their sister Anysa’s, would greet her. In the house, Zainab would smell mint and hear the neighbors’ chickens. Waleed would usher her to a cushion, next to their mother.

  “Yama,” Zainab would say and kiss her mother’s hand. Waleed would pour the coffee, releasing its cardamom scent, and pass her a tiny cup resting in its saucer. “Bless your hands,” she would reply.

  Zainab opened her eyes. She scanned the cul-de-sac, devoid of people, devoid of movement. The sky remained gray, and the only sounds came from the cars on the main road. She looked at her watch: two hours until asr prayer. How would she fill her time? In Palestine, there was always someone to visit. She could have tea with her daughter Huda or go to Dheisheh Camp to visit Yasmine.

  Yes, when Zainab thought of home, what came to mind was Palestine. Embroidered upon those memories were Anysa, so overbearing but always pleased to see her. They would be tied even closer now that Nadia would marry Anysa’s son. It was just like Zainab’s own marriage. Abed was the son of her mother’s sister. A perfect arrangement. So many benefits: security, ease, familiarity, and predictability.

  Zainab continued to stare at the tree across the street. Was it too early to start dinner? Would Margaret be pleased? Zainab was unsure. Margaret didn’t ever start dinner until the very end of the day, when the meal should have been finished and the dishes done. Sometimes Margaret would smile and put a hand on Zainab’s shoulder. Other times she moved stiffly around the kitchen, closing cupboards too loudly.

  When Ahmed returned from his work, Zainab would ask him how many more days until they traveled. She was impatient to get to Jordan, where Nadia was waiting to become engaged. The days would go by slowly at this rate, sitting and waiting for someone to visit or walking the cul-de-sac, eyeing the greenery for a bit of fresh chamomile. Margaret had gone shopping and taken the young children, and Mona was busy with her boys. Where was Jenin? Couldn’t she stay with her grandmother?

  A raindrop landed on Zainab’s cardboard mat. With a dull ache in her heart, she got up and went inside. In the living room, she paced and thought of Khalid and his wife. “Alhamdulillah,” she said out loud at the thought of Khalid’s new job. Praise be to God. Now she would have real news to tell her sister. “His position is high!” Zainab would tell Anysa. “He had many opportunities. He was waiting for the best.”

  That wasn’t the only news. The doctor had said their baby would be a girl. Inshallah. How could the doctors find this out so soon from looking at the belly of Khalid’s skinny wife? Would this baby arrive only seven or eight months after the wedding? Zainab had seen this before—a first baby born too early, but at the right weight. Everyone exclaimed, “Masha’Allah!” What else was there to say? Why stir up trouble for the family? Allah was merciful and compassionate.

  Zainab sat on the couch and crossed her arms. Maybe she wouldn’t tell her sister the baby was a girl. Anysa was smart. She might say, “You found out already? It’s no wonder they had a sudden wedding.” Her words might bring the evil eye upon Khalid’s daughter.

  Fingering her prayer beads, Zainab asked for forgiveness. Her own sister bringing the evil eye to her family! How could she have such a thought?

  The good news Zainab would dole out slowly, shway, shway, like Eid pastries. This week she would announce the new job. Later, in Jordan, she would share the news about the baby. She tapped her prayer beads together. Zainab was always waiting for something: the next prayer, for Mona to visit, for Ahmed to come home. And now she counted the days until she traveled.

  From outside came the sound of the car in the driveway. Then the front door opened; Margaret called out something in English and came up the stairs, carrying a large box full of purchases. Tariq and Leena followed behind, each with a box in their arms.

  Margaret nodded to Zainab. “Salaam alaikum.”

  In the kitchen, there were new items on the counter: bags of pasta, socks, books, a box of frozen something. Margaret must have gone to that warehouse store where large containers of food were sold next to furniture. In front of Zainab sat a box of blueberries. But what was there to make for dinner? She didn’t recognize most of the items Margaret was shoving into the freezer. Zainab clicked her tongue and looked up, a small gesture of protest.

  Tariq entered the kitchen in a white karate jacket. The boy struggled with the belt. Margaret turned to Zainab and said in her impossible Arabi
c that they would be back soon. They left as quickly as they had arrived. Zainab stared at the food items left out. Everyone was in a rush in this house. What kind of life was this? Didn’t anyone have an hour for tea?

  Zainab squeezed her prayer beads and paced the house. Of course, Margaret wouldn’t have tea with her. Margaret rarely had tea with her own mother. The woman lived in a nearby city, but how often did Margaret see her? Two times a month? What a shame!

  The phone rang and snapped Zainab from her thoughts.

  It was Khalid. “I’m calling to check on you, Yama. My job starts tomorrow.”

  “So, you’re visiting me today?”

  “What about Saturday afternoon? Or Thursday evening?”

  “What’s this? You’re making an appointment with your mother?”

  “I’m busy these days, Yama. I don’t have time to sit around.”

  Sit around? Was that how he thought of visiting his mother? Khalid said he needed to go. Zainab said salaam, the issue of his visit still unresolved. Her sons were becoming Americans. She came to this country to be near them, yet her youngest son didn’t have time for her. She shook her head, having no words for her feelings.

  She lived in a strange household, full of tension and arguing. She heard voices late at night, harsh words between Ahmed and Margaret. Zainab couldn’t understand them, but she recognized the emotions. The couple barely spoke during the day, but at night, the hushed exchanges would start. They thought she couldn’t hear, that she was unaware. Maybe the evil eye had already descended upon the family. So many people back home were jealous of Ahmed, his restaurants, his success.

  Finally, asr prayer. Standing in the living room, in her white prayer covering, Zainab began. “Allahu Akbar.” Arms crossed, head bowed down, she had much to pray for. She pressed her forehead to the carpet and asked for forgiveness. She needed it for the thoughts she had been having lately—the result of having too much time to think.

  “I seek refuge with You from the suggestions of the evil ones,” she began. “I seek refuge from the mischief of the envious.” She recited surahs of protection until her head hurt. The words moved about in her mind, giving her a shiver.