Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  Amidst this sober ambiance sat Nadia in her classic white gown. She sat poised in an armchair against the wall, her expression stoic. A bride, at last. It wouldn’t be long before the groom arrived to bring her to the wedding. These were Nadia’s final private moments with her family before she would leave their home for good.

  The door opened. Ahmed and Khalid entered, looking striking in their black suits. They approached their sister, now standing, her face newly brightened. The mood lifted as everyone clapped, and someone shrieked a bridal trill.

  Khalid took Nadia’s hand. The two of them danced, and it was the first time Margaret had seen him happy since his falling out with Alison. It occurred to her how much Alison would have appreciated this trip and this wedding, and how unfortunate it was that she and Eman weren’t there.

  As Margaret mulled this over, Ahmed stepped in and took Khalid’s place. Nadia looked up at her eldest brother with a teary expression of love and gratitude. They danced gracefully while soaking up the approval of those around them. Pride radiated from Ahmed’s face, and he looked at Nadia as if she were his own daughter. He said something to her, and she laughed, visibly pleased to have him there.

  Family rituals of this sort usually left Margaret feeling detached. But this time she was moved, and she understood why Ahmed’s presence at the wedding was so crucial. He really was standing in for their father. In the weeks leading up to this day, Ahmed had spoken with renewed purpose of the importance of representing his late father. Now surrounded by his family, he was finally fulfilling that role.

  Without warning, Fatma shouted, “He’s here!” In her hand was a white, silky cape, which she slipped over Nadia’s head. Through the crowd, Ahmed and Khalid guided the bride out of the room. Margaret rushed out with the others, but by the time she reached the street, the couple’s car was pulling away.

  At the curb was a bus, its windshield decorated with a fringe of colorful tassels. Ahmed and the children were climbing aboard. He turned and extended his hand to Margaret.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  Margaret took Ahmed’s hand and stepped onto the bus, where the rest of the family was already seated and Mona’s boys ran up and down the aisle. Margaret wanted to sit with her own kids, but they were with their cousins. Since their arrival in Jordan, her children had gravitated to their Palestinian relatives, interacting easily with them, trying out their Arabic, and enjoying the doting attention of their aunts.

  Ahmed had moved to the back of the bus with the men, so Margaret sat alone. She turned to the window, caught her reflection and touched her hair. With her new cut, she looked better—even younger. Why hadn’t she made this change sooner?

  The bus pulled away, and someone brought out two drums. The atmosphere quickly turned rowdy as Ahmed’s mother and sisters danced down the aisle, clapping their hands over their heads. Warming to the celebration, Margaret’s own enthusiasm began to grow. For once, the family and all of their commotion didn’t overwhelm her. She glanced back and caught Ahmed’s eye. He gave her a tender smile, got up, and sat next to her.

  For months, she had tried to block out the argument by the fountain, but a vision of it came to her again with Ahmed now seated next to her— the defeated look on his face that night as she blurted out words she never should have said.

  Ahmed put his arm around Margaret, squeezed her shoulder, and pulled her closer. His affection didn’t lessen her guilt, though. Instead, it stirred a host of regrets—namely, those concerning her rigid decisions and attitude. How did she come to behave in this way? Margaret, not wanting to ruin such a happy moment, pushed away these thoughts and concentrated on the singing and clapping around her.

  The wedding was segregated into two ballrooms. The women’s party spread out into a mass of guests greeting one another with kisses. Of course, anyone remotely related or vaguely acquainted would be there. At the edge of the dance floor was a small band of musicians playing lutes, drums, and a flute. The party buzzed as wave after wave of women spilled in; just when it seemed it had reached its capacity, a new surge arrived.

  Then the room quieted as the music stopped and the lights went out. Everyone turned to the back of the room and stared at the double doors, where a spotlight shone brightly. With all the drama of a stage show, Mohammed and Nadia stepped through—he, elegant in his tuxedo and she, luminous in her white gown. She held his arm and beamed as they strode onto the dance floor.

  As the couple twirled under the spotlight, Margaret sat captivated, conjuring up visions of Alison and Khalid dancing at their wedding the year before. That memory seemed so recent, yet the couple had already had a baby and were separated.

  Her eyes followed Nadia and Mohammed, but her thoughts turned to her own marriage, which unlocked new questions: Where would she and Ahmed end up? Would they stay together, their marriage one sad compromise? Or would they finally give in and release each other?

  The dance ended, and an absurdly tall layer cake was wheeled in. The eight layers towered over the bride, who brandished a long, curved sword. She slashed at the ceremonial decoy cake, and the guests shrieked. After this show, the couple moved to their raised love seat next to the dance floor, and Aunt Anysa took her place standing before them. The band began playing, and the drumming started up again. Aunt Anysa bellowed out a wedding song, rocking her large body from side to side, her mouth wide open, her song more like a sad wail.

  Then the mother stood. The room grew silent, and Margaret’s heart quickened. The mother turned to the couple, straightened herself, and began. Her voice, haunting and sorrowful, carried across the room. She gestured gently toward Nadia, then Mohammed, and finally brought her hand to her heart as she sang her wishes to the couple. The act was so direct, so poignant, even Margaret felt the bittersweet angst in the mother’s voice. How painful for her! Her last child was marrying. For the mother, her children were everything. What else did she have?

  A flash of insight hit Margaret. It was one of those moments when life’s shroud was peeled away, when Margaret could see the truth—the mother lived her life the only way she knew how. For the past year and a half, Margaret had been oblivious to what the older woman had been going through. From the day Ahmed’s mother had moved in, Margaret had been overly judgmental, engulfed in her own self-pity.

  The mother appeared noticeably older than when her husband had died—as though she had aged ten years. Margaret’s eyes scanned the other women, all gripped by the theater of this singing ritual. She hated the segregated arrangement and wished Ahmed were next to her. He had been so happy lately—all because of this trip. She realized, despite the flaws in their marriage, that at least she had someone to share her life with, someone who loved her. The mother had no one; she was alone. Belated compassion filled Margaret’s heart as she watched the mother, who, with red-rimmed eyes, reached out to her daughter, symbolically embracing Nadia and Mohammed.

  It was then that Margaret’s own eyes began to fill until the tears poured down. She cried over the mother—a widow!—while thinking of Nadia and Mohammed, Khalid and Alison, and most of all, Ahmed. Her tears flowed in a great gush, an amazing letting-go, a release of the bitterness that had churned inside her for so long. She wiped her tears and sat stunned.

  The meal followed—a simple buffet that looked splendid in Margaret’s still-misty eyes. It had been an enormous relief to cry, and she felt refreshed. She was sure that she could now find a way to set things right with Ahmed, to correct her past mistakes, and fix their marriage.

  The first moist bite of rice gave Margaret immediate pleasure. She savored it all: the lamb, the fattoush salad, the rice pilaf soaking up the yogurt. It was all oddly and amazingly delicious. Beyond the spread of food, placed strategically out of reach, was the actual edible wedding cake, another multitiered creation, covered in real flower blossoms, just as Ahmed liked to do. Was this Nadia’s surprise?

  After the meal, a row of young women entered the room, their arms linked over one another�
�s shoulders as they made their way to the dance floor. They were Nadia’s cousins, all dressed in intricately stitched thobs, forming a chain of dabke dancers. The dancer in front twirled a white handkerchief high in the air. They reached the dance floor and turned to the guests, who clapped and trilled.

  Margaret glanced at the love seat, now empty. Where were the bride and groom?

  When the music kicked in, the girls jumped in unison and stomped their feet. They raised their arms and twirled around. The guests were out of their seats and shrieking wildly. What was once simply a folk dance for weddings, the dabke had become a defiant show of Palestinian identity. As the dance went on, it generated a rush of boisterous pride, which rose up in a swell of zeal, so infectious that Margaret’s skin tingled.

  Suddenly, the attention shifted to the back of the room. Nadia and Mohammed were making a second entrance, dancing and twirling handkerchiefs. Nadia had changed out of her white gown and was wearing a thob so completely covered in red cross-stitch, it looked more red than black. At her waist was the embroidered belt that she had stitched in Seattle. She wore a headpiece, too, a sheer scarf with an embroidered headband and a row of silver coins flickering across her forehead, the style of a Palestinian bride of an earlier time. Mohammed wore a black vest, white shirt, and red sash around his middle. They performed a clever choreography of gentle dabke steps, moving together and apart and back together, keeping their eyes on each other.

  Mohammed gave a loud stomp, and Nadia sashayed forward and back. As Margaret watched the couple, she opened her mind to the scene around her, the rosy cheeks of her own daughters, the faces of Ahmed’s sisters, and the tears in the mother’s eyes. How had Margaret, all this time, failed to see the love among these women? She had been clinging to the wrong things, searching for some kind of normalcy that she could never find, nor would ever make her happy.

  All at once, the women of the family swarmed up to the couple and created one enormous dabke line that snaked around the floor with Nadia leading the way, waving her handkerchief.

  And their dance—so exhilarating! As Margaret stood clapping at the edge of the dance floor, the women’s faces became illuminated, and the colors of their thobs turned vibrant. Margaret trembled with a sudden jolt of tribal pride. She did indeed love this dynamic, over-extended family and all of their generous, emotional ways.

  The dancers moved by Margaret, their thobs brushing past her. Jenin was dancing, too, her arm locked around her grandmother’s shoulders. As the mother danced by, she gave Margaret a gentle smile. In that instant, Margaret found herself slipping into the dance line, wrapping her arms around the mother and Mona, and allowing herself to become swept up in the joy.

  Chapter 31

  The dance floor pulsed with drumbeats. Near the end of the dabke line, Zainab linked arms with her daughters and granddaughters. She breathed in their warmth and glanced at her daughters alongside her, as well as Jenin, and even Margaret. Seized by awe at the sight of their beautiful faces and vibrant thobs, Zainab felt a happiness so profound, she felt her body might levitate off the ground.

  Then the drumming ended and the dabke line fell away, all of the women smiling and out of breath. Her heart beating wildly from the dance, Zainab swayed from side to side and brought a hand to her chest.

  The musicians stepped back from their instruments, and everyone drifted off the dance floor, leaving Zainab standing alone, admiring the backs of the women as they moved away. The sight of those embroidered kaftans made her think of Palestine. And then: a flicker of homesickness.

  Zainab signed and wandered to a chair off to the side of the room, where she took a seat. As she sat alone, all at once she thought of Abed, then of her future. With her last daughter married, where would she live?

  A place in her chest ached, and there in the midst of this delight and festivity, the wound inside awakened. The sorrows of her life trickled up.

  Visions of Palestine appeared in her mind—Bethlehem and Jerusalem and her home in the refugee camp. She wondered about the years ahead. Where would she go? Zainab had lived in Jordan and America, but no matter where she was, she couldn’t shake Palestine. Lodged in her memory were its curving hillsides and stone walls, its lemon trees and grape leaves, stone homes and ancient mosques. So much had been lost! But most of all, Abed was gone from this world, save for Zainab’s lingering memories.

  She had no home in Palestine, no son with whom to stay, only daughters living in their husbands’ homes and a brother, already caring for their mother. Zainab could visit, of course, but not stay. Stabbed by an unexpected grief, she felt herself close to tears.

  From across the room, Nadia smiled at her. But the act of smiling back was impossible. In her red-stitched thob, Nadia glided toward her.

  “What’s wrong, Yama?” Her daughter’s cheeks glowed pink from dancing.

  Zainab’s shoulders dropped. “Just feeling happy for you.”

  Nadia looked back at her from behind the row of coins on her bridal headdress. She squeezed her mother’s hand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Zainab squeezed back. “I’m missing your father.”

  “Oh, Yama. Me, too. Me, too.” Nadia sat down next to Zainab and they remained silent, lost in their own longings until Nadia said, “May God have mercy on his soul. Oh, how I wish he were here.” Then she brightened. “But so many people came. It’s hard to stay sad with so much family around.”

  It was true. Everyone was there: Zainab’s two sons, her five daughters, twenty-five grandchildren—not counting little Eman, of course, back in America with her mother. Even Zainab’s brother Waleed had come, along with their mother.

  “You’re right, habibti.” Zainab patted Nadia’s knee. “You’re smart. Masha’Allah, and a beautiful bride, too. Alf mabruuk.” A thousand congratulations. “Go enjoy yourself.”

  “Are you sure?” Nadia asked.

  “Yes, alhamdulillah. I’m fine.”

  Nadia floated off, leaving Zainab with the questions that plagued her: Would she ever live in the one place she truly belonged? Or would she only be a visitor, a traveler carrying her homeland around in her heart? She feared she would end up in a substitute country, like so many others—in Jordan or somewhere in the Gulf or—God help her—America.

  Through Zainab’s mind passed the story of her life, her childhood, her marriage, her seven children, and the places where she had lived. Only then did the meaning of it unfold inside her. The answer was there—dangling like a lemon on a tree. She had never been alone. Despite her woes, God had never abandoned her. He was always at Zainab’s side.

  Not only God, but her family surrounded her, too, an everlasting constant in her life. She had been hurt in this life, yes, had suffered through loss. Truth be told, she would forever yearn for Palestine and for Abed. Yet she didn’t want to live her remaining days wallowing in this ache.

  Her life would march forward, but she would never lose her capacity for the love of her family. Zainab thought of Nadia’s words, and she decided: no matter where she lived, if her family were near, she would try her best to be content and remember her blessings.

  “Allahu Akbar,” she said to herself. God is great.

  Zainab became aware of the music rising up and renewed movement on the dance floor. Waddling toward her was Anysa, beads of sweat on her brow.

  “Masha’Allah, what a beautiful couple,” she said. “Our children are joined at last, my sister!” Anysa sat down next to her.

  Zainab gave her a nudge. “Inshallah, we’ll be grandmothers together next year!”

  Chapter 32

  By the time Margaret and her family took the wedding bus back to the hotel, it was the early hours of the morning. Margaret’s eyes followed Ahmed as he made his way down the aisle, taking care to have a word with each family member. Finally, a touch on Margaret’s shoulder, and Ahmed slid into the seat next to her. She opened her mouth and felt a rush of affection so distracting that she forgot what she was going to say.

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nbsp; “Honey,” he said. “I have an idea.” He took her hand and held it between his, just as he used to. “You know how I’m always saying, ‘Next year, Jerusalem’?” His eyes gleamed. “While we’re here, I want to go to Palestine and see Jerusalem. Just us and the kids.”

  She blinked. “Isn’t it a bit risky?”

  “How long am I supposed to wait?” Ahmed squeezed her hand. “It’s been ten years.”

  A sudden thrill pounded inside her, a sensation she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  “We can push our flight back a week.” He spoke excitedly. “We’ll pack tomorrow and leave for the bridge the next morning. We’ll stay in a hotel in Bethlehem.” As he talked, he transformed into his old spontaneous self, the man Margaret had missed.

  She thought for a moment. “And the restaurants? Don’t you need to get back?”

  He clicked his tongue and flicked his head back.

  “Honey, what if they don’t let you in?” she asked.

  “They’ll let me in. I’m traveling with my family. I’m not a young man anymore, not like Khalid.” He put an arm around her. “They’ll ask me a hundred questions, then let me in.”

  Margaret’s chest filled with an old love for him, a love of more than twenty-one years. How could she possibly say no?

  “Okay,” she said, “Let’s do it.”

  The next morning in their hotel room, Margaret sat by while Ahmed spoke on the phone making new travel arrangements. They would leave for the border into the West Bank the following day. As Margaret sorted through what to bring, the children became keyed up.

  “Do we take an airplane to Palestine?” Leena asked.

  “Taxis and buses,” Ahmed said.

  “Can I go to my village?” Jenin was referring to the village that she was named after.

  Margaret looked at Ahmed and back at Jenin. “I don’t think we’ll have time, sweetheart.”

  “Will we see the wall?” Jenin asked.