by Kelly Link
Both Sousan and I have Facebook accounts, though we’ve had to skew our names so that our identities remain secret. Nowhere on our pages can you find real information about us—the fact that we are sisters, that we are from the Beni Hasan tribe, that we live in Mafrag, that we attend Al al-Bayt University.
Which makes searching for us—or for any of our friends, for that matter—impossible.
Sousan is Sou Sou Jordan (in Arabic letters), and I’m Amëlië Hopë (in English).
Her profile pic is a drawing: an anime-style girl with large brown eyes and a lime-green hijab. Mine is a sunset on a beach, with the words Waking up to see another day is a blessing. Don’t take it for granted. Make it count and be happy that you’re alive.
Though we change them regularly.
About a month ago, I found Omar’s page. Omar Khaled (in both Arabic and English), the University of Jordan. He doesn’t have to act with such secrecy, though he doesn’t post much about himself (what he thinks of Amman, if he misses the quiet of Mafrag, etc.).
The day I found his name, my heart seemed to want to beat out of my chest.
I added him, and sent a message in English: Ya, 3mar, I am your cousin, Amal. We miss you here in Mafrag!
He sent one back: Hi, my cousin Amal! It is good to hear from you. How is Mafrag?
I said: 7mdullah, 7mdullah.
And that was the end of our conversation.
I wondered whether or not I should have asked him about life in Amman, if I should have been the one to open the doors of communication so that we might write to each other once again. I was nervous, but why should I have been? He is Omar, my closest and one true friend.
Now I have taken to looking at his page, to clicking through his profile pics, waiting for each to load, row by row of tiny little pixels, one at a time.
Omar has sixty-seven pictures. Because our connection is slow, in the thirty minutes I have alone, I’ve only seen nine.
A member of the Barcelona football team whooping in celebration.
The University of Jordan medical school.
A sun setting behind a minaret.
Prince William and Prince Harry, arms thrown around each other.
A black-and-white photograph of a little boy kicking a soccer ball down an empty street.
The Jordanian flag.
Omar in front of the gates of the university, wearing sunglasses and making a backwards peace sign.
A Barcelona football jersey.
Omar in a red keffiyeh. (This is my favorite, and I linger on it for a few moments until I click to the next picture, which may be why I have only seen a fraction of them.)
Today, I take in a deep breath at the sight of his golden eyes against the red-and-white fabric, and click on.
A platter of mansef.
The Jordanian flag again.
The next takes longer to load than the rest.
From the first little bit that appears, I can tell that this picture was not taken with a phone or found on a website. This picture is old, a photograph that has been scanned onto a computer.
I dig my toes into the carpet and think, Why does that tawny background look so familiar?
At the next pixelated line, I notice white fringe, what looks like a moon of shiny black hair rising out of the blank space.
Off in the kitchen, my mother calls my name. Ya, Amal! You still listening?
I turn my head to call to her—Yes, Mamma, everything’s okay!—and notice the white fringe of our hand-woven rug, the caramel carpet of our sitting room. Could this photograph have been taken here?
When I look back at the computer, I begin to see Omar’s head, his bright eyes pinching at the corners, his mouth smiling plenty. Next to him seems to be a little girl: me.
My breathing quickens, my knee bounces up and down. While I often grow impatient waiting for Omar’s profile pics to load, nothing compares to this stress welling up inside of me.
Ya, Amal! They have three more minutes. In three minutes, open the door.
Three minutes, three minutes. Is that long enough to load the photograph? I am praying that it is.
Ya, Amal, come and help me gather plates and spoons.
I hesitate, not wanting to leave the computer. I never leave Facebook open, for fear that my parents might look through my messages or posts. And I’d never leave it open on the page of a boy. But this photograph is taking what feels like forever, and so I rush to the kitchen, scramble to grab the tiny plates and spoons as quickly as possible and bring them to the sitting room.
Slow down, girl—there’s no rush! my mother says.
I nod and, with the plates stacked upon a copper tray, head back to the computer.
There, on the screen, is a picture of Omar and me, him in a brown shirt, me in a yellow sweater. We’re about ten years old, sitting on this exact carpet that I rub with my feet, thumbing through my father’s atlas. His eyes look at the camera, but mine look at him, our smiles missing teeth.
Dozens of comments in both Arabic and English drag along the side of the page.
CuTe CuTe. <3 :)
Awww, she loves youuuuuu.
3mar, you were so sweet…….what happened? :p
7elwa kiteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My mother yells from the kitchen. Amal! Tell them their time is up!
She slowly proceeds into the sitting room, balancing a carafe of coffee, bowls of sugar, and demitasse cups in her hands.
I don’t want to leave this photograph, this memory, this pure, childish happiness, but I don’t want my mother to see. I quickly like the picture, close the browser, and slide open the door to Sousan and Ahmed.
Alarmed by my force, they jump away from each other on the couch and stand, their faces red.
Excuse me, I say. Coffee.
Oh, Amal, do you ever think of me?
Dear Amal, who is your closest friend?
Tell me: What in the world would you like to see?
The next week, when Sousan and Ahmed visit behind the sliding door, I log on to Facebook.
I have thirty notifications, mostly friends of Omar commenting on the picture that I’ve now brought to the surface of his News Feed.
Oh, sweeeeeeeeet!!! Who is this little girl?
Mosta7eel! This innocent face couldn’t possibly be you.
No it’s him! He’s such a mamma’s boy.
Omar, oh, Omar. You were a ladies’ man even back then!
This last post unsettles me. Does Omar have girlfriends in Amman? Are they foreign students, from America or Europe? Does he go to swanky cafés with velvet cushions and milk shakes, to smoke lemon-and-mint flavored argeela? Has he ever held a girl’s hand, or kissed one on the cheek?
Oh, Omar, what is your life like in the city?
He responds to these comments like this:
hhhhhhhhhhh merci, merci. this is me and my favorite cousin when we were very young and adorable.
Omar, I am sure that you are still adorable.
I have five messages: two from my friend Aliya, one from my cousin Nour, one from Sousan, and one from Omar.
And, upon seeing this, I find that it has become difficult to breathe.
I open the message, which he has composed in formal Arabic.
Dearest Amal,
I saw that you “liked” the photograph of us as children. I hope that posting the picture was not a problem . . . it is one of many photographs I brought to Amman to remind me of home, and one afternoon when I was studying for exams and feeling quite lonely, I scanned it at the library and made it my profile picture.
I am sorry if the comments my friends have written embarrassed or offended you. If you would prefer, I can delete it.
Sincerely,
Your cousin, Omar
; I reread the message several times, trying to decipher some hidden meaning from it. Of all the photographs he could have chosen, he picked one with me.
The front door opens, and I hear my father walk into Sousan and Ahmed’s meeting.
What is this? he yells, and I can’t tell by his tone if he’s serious or joking.
I jump out of my chair and slide open the door to find Ahmed standing, his hands clenched and his jaw tight. Sousan stares, her eyes bouncing between the two men.
My father turns to look at me, and I am frightened by the severe look on his face.
Suddenly, he bursts into laughter.
Ahmed, Ahmed, my boy, I’m just joking. I know you know that I would kill you if you were to touch my Sousan before the wedding.
He wraps his arms around Ahmed and kisses him on the neck.
Sousan then laughs, covering her mouth with the fringed end of her hijab.
My mother touches my back and walks into the room.
Stop threatening the young man, or else he might be too frightened to ever give us grandchildren.
At this, Sousan’s caramel skin turns white.
Yallah, my mother says to me. Get off that computer and help with the coffee.
The computer. Omar. Did she read what he wrote to me? Is that why her right eyebrow floats higher than the left?
My God, why didn’t he write to me in English?
For the next few days, I avoid the computer and immerse myself in my books more than usual. I have been reading Animal Farm, a thin little book, for a week, but cannot focus on the words. Are these animals really talking? Whenever I am alone with my mother, I am convinced that she can hear my heartbeat, that she can feel my nervousness as it radiates out of my fingertips, out of the tops of my ears.
But she never mentions anything, and by the fifth night, after my parents and Sousan have gone to sleep, I decide to log on, to write the letter to Omar I have been reworking in my head, over and over, in Arabic.
Dearest Omar,
It is wonderful to hear from you. Please do not apologize about the photograph . . . I was so happy to see it as I too often think of those days. Just be sure my father doesn’t hear of it! :)
Sousan is getting married to our cousin Ahmed. My father threatened to kill him should he touch her before the wedding . . . you should have seen the color of his cheeks!
Will you be coming back home for the wedding? I am sure that your mother and father miss you terribly. And I know that my family would love for you to celebrate with us.
I wanted to ask, do you remember how we used to write notes to each other in English? We had such little to say then—I wonder all that we could tell each other now.
God be with you,
Amal
My finger hovers over the mouse, and I reread the letter. While I can only hope that Omar is the same Omar who dreamed with me on my parents’ carpet, how can I truly know?
Amal!
My mother’s voice startles me, and I reflexively click, sending the message off.
Why are you awake? she asks as she walks toward me and the pale green glow of the computer.
Mama, I say, my voice shaking, I couldn’t sleep.
She squints at the screen, trying to make out what it is I’m looking at.
You are going to go blind in this light, girl. Then who will want to marry you? She kisses my forehead and walks to the bathroom. Go to bed. You don’t want your father catching you chatting with your cousin at this hour of the night.
And at this, I am speechless.
She closes the door, and I shut down the computer, rushing to get into bed before she reemerges.
The next message I receive from Omar is, in fact, in English:
Dear Amal,
A wedding between Ahmed and Sousan? Mabrook! That is fantastic news. I will be at the party, inshallah. It would be so nice to see you. But poor Ahmed! I would not want to make your father angry.
I do remember writing letters to you. I found one in my photographs. You had written, “Jordan: the diamond in the desert.” !!! Where did you possibly hear this? I will admit that after living in Amman I am beginning to question my love of this country. It seems to me that it is not a diamond at all, but completely desert. Even the sea here is dead!
I am sorry to be negative. I am so overwhelmed with exams that I don’t have much time to enjoy this city. I hope to continue my studies in the UK, but it is only possible if I earn perfect marks.
Have you ever visited Amman? There is a park up on a hill that overlooks the entire city. It is so beautiful, especially at night. Next week, my friend Majdi is celebrating his birthday there, and we’ll eat barbecued meats and play soccer, inshallah. I’ve been looking forward to it since my last exam.
Yours truly,
Omar
When I first read Omar’s message, my heart drops. They are working him too hard, I think. They should not be putting him through all this pressure! If he is too stressed, he’ll never get to England to complete his studies!
And then I think about what Omar has written: He wants to leave Jordan.
He wants to leave his family.
He wants to leave me.
I try to compose a response, but cannot.
How strange it is to be able to say so much when you have nothing to say, and then, when you finally have something to say, to be unable to say it.
Oh, Omar, it was so much easier when we were children.
Dear Omar,
Allah yabarak feek!
I am sorry to hear about the difficulties at the university. Al al-Bayt is very different . . . here, you receive high marks for being on time for an exam and, in some faculties, professors do not even show up to class!
I think you should come back to Mafrag. Being with your family will remind you of why Jordan really is a diamond in the desert, I promise.
What do you think the people are like in the UK? Do you think they are more like the characters in a Dickens novel? Or in an Austen? Have you read any of these novels? If you go there you must buy me as many books as you can.
Your friend’s birthday celebration sounds so beautiful. I cannot remember the last time I ate barbecued meat.
Sincerely,
Amal
Every day when I come home from the university, Sousan has a different shade of lipstick on her lips, or a new way to style her hair. She has been doing sit-ups for weeks, and bounces around our living room in front of a Lebanese exercise show.
My aunts are throwing her a party, one at which we will dye our hair with henna, eat platters of sweets, present her with gifts.
My father, he has been told, is forbidden from attending.
What are you going to do? he asks my mother. Kick me out of my own house?
Of course we will, she says in reply.
What am I supposed to eat? Where am I supposed to sleep? He brings up his hands in surrender. Surely God doesn’t want me to be homeless!
This causes me to look up from my book.
What if I just sit and read here with Amal? Amal, do you have a copy in Arabic for me?
I nod. Yes, Baba, but you won’t like it.
Why?
It’s about pigs who take over a farm.
He raises his face to the ceiling, opens his palms to the sky. My God, what is happening in my home?
Oh, go to your brother’s house, and leave us women be. You don’t want to hear all the bedroom secrets we are going to tell Sousan!
My mother and I laugh, but both Sousan and my father are silent.
He stands, sighs, and heads out of the house, waving goodbye but not looking back. The door shuts behind him.
Mama! Sousan says.
My dear, it is nothing to be ashamed of. You will have duties as a wife! Yallah, come help me in the k
itchen.
Alone once again, I return to my book, though my thoughts drift to Omar. Has he responded to my message? Do I have time to check?
Just as I move toward the computer, Aunt Hanan walks in, her hands full of packages and baklawa.
Oh, my sweet. Help me, please.
I set down my book and take the platters from her hands. She kisses me twice on both cheeks.
Is this in English? she asks, picking up the book. Clever, you.
I smile and lower my head.
Omar wants to complete his studies in England, she says.
Yes, I know, I say.
You do? She looks at me with the same raised eyebrow as my mother.
Oh, I—
I feel my face blush.
Sousan and my mother return from the kitchen, their hands full.
Amal! Go make the coffee.
The three of them embrace, offer praises of each other’s desserts.
By the time I brew the coffee and return to the sitting room, the other aunts and cousins have arrived. We hug and kiss over and over, as if it is the last time we will meet.
Soon after, we sit in a crescent around Sousan. Each of us cradles, in our laps, a gift.
A pair of house slippers.
A set of towels embroidered with the words Husband and Wife.
A set of lacy red lingerie.
Sousan’s whole body reddens.
Look, says Aunt Hanan, it’s a perfect match!
Yes, but if he can’t tell where her skin ends and the underwear begins, how will he take it off? my mother asks, her shoulders bent over a brazier of coals. She brings the hose of the argeela to her lips, drinks the syrupy smoke.
Aunt Hanan nudges Sousan in the ribs. Watch your mother, Sousan—she knows a thing or two about using her mouth.
We erupt with laughter.
My mother walks to the kitchen, shaking her head. I’m not denying a thing! she yells. I’m not denying a thing!
Later, we turn on MBC The Voice for music videos, tie scarves around our hips, and dance. My mother and Aunt Hanan move with such sexiness and ease, as does Nour. Sousan has her eyes closed, dancing in her own world.