Footsteps

by Umm Zakiyyah

  That evening, Zahra sat on the couch of the living room in the home of her aunt and uncle, Zaid’s parents, who were having her family over for dinner. She and her cousins were having a conversation about school and the careers they planned to pursue while her parents and aunt and uncle sat together in the family room on the other side of the house. Zahra watched as Zaid relaxed and joked with her sister and his own brother and sisters, and Zahra could only smile every now and then, unable to concentrate on the conversation.

  Ever since she talked to Zaid a month before and read Aminah’s e-mail that he had shown her, she had a lot on her mind. She realized as she sat half-participating in the discussion that it wouldn’t be long before she pulled Zaid aside that night. There was something she needed to say.

  Guilt plagued Zahra as she saw how the family welcomed Zaid back (at least socially because he never really left) as he claimed he no longer wanted to marry Aminah, that it was a mistake to have even proposed. He recounted more than once his reflections on Aminah’s thinking that was evidenced in the e-mail, and it made Zahra feel uncomfortable. It was as if he were moving backward instead of forward, especially as he embarked upon a religiosity that he had not yet embraced completely.

  Tonight was evidence that he had a lot of growing to do with respect to his Islamic commitment. No devoted Muslim brother would feel as relaxed as Zaid appeared in a gathering of men and women who were not related. Granted, they were all cousins, “family” technically. But that her mother and his mother were married to their own cousins, albeit distant, showed that even her culture recognized that cousins were not family. Zahra had even begun to feel uncomfortable with the idea of chatting freely with Zaid and his older brother. She wondered if part of it was Tamika’s and Aminah’s influence in her life. But the intermingling was not what Zahra wanted to talk to Zaid about.

  Zahra’s primary concern was that she had played a hand in encouraging Zaid to do something that he should not have. She didn’t disagree with him not wanting to marry Aminah. She had long felt they were not right for each other. What Aminah had said in the e-mail was essentially what Zahra had been warning her cousin about all along. Besides, Aminah herself would not be content as part of their family. Tonight was proof of that. Aminah wouldn’t know what to do with herself amidst all the intermingling and Urdu gossip.

  Zahra herself sometimes felt as if she didn’t belong, which was the main reason she had been unable to openly support Zaid marrying Aminah. She wanted to hold on to whatever family bonds she had socially and culturally because she knew as early as high school that she would always be different from her family psychologically and spiritually. She was Pakistani and Behari, not by volition, but simply because she was. And there was nothing she could, or would, do to change that. She loved that Allah had given her the strong culture and background that He had. Seeing Americans’ flimsily-tied families that they considered “close” made her only more grateful for what she had. Their crumbling and short-lived marriages made her thank Allah for what Americans would consider “arranged marriages.”

  However, none of this stopped her from seeing right through Zaid, as Aminah had. Zahra was disappointed in him. There was no other way to describe her feelings about the affair. It was one thing for her parents, aunts, and uncles, who grew up in Pakistan and traveled to America in adulthood, to see life the way they did, but it was another entirely for someone like Zaid, who grew up in America, to profess the same views. It wasn’t that Zahra viewed the elders in her family as lacking knowledge, or that she considered herself and her cousins more experienced and open-minded to life. It was simply that their realities had been different, therefore their outlook would be, too. The outlook of family elders was based on experience and harsh realities they had witnessed in their country, hardship that inspired in them a determination to overcome the odds, regardless of the obstructions placed in their paths. When Zahra had visited Pakistan years ago, she could not comprehend the strength it must have taken for her parents and aunts and uncles to survive there, let alone leave and start over in America.

  The elders built a comfortable life for the youth and laid the bricks for their children to reach higher than they had. Each generation was built on the previous one, and there was no progress unless the children benefited from the parents and applied what they taught, taking the knowledge farther than the parents had been able to. The Muslims as a community would not achieve this, this was already written, as the pinnacle of success had been realized by the first generation of Muslims, those who lived with the Prophet. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be true for individuals and their families.

  Before talking to Zaid and reading the e-mail, a part of Zahra respected Zaid. But after hearing his thoughts on Aminah’s comments, she realized she had given him more credit than was due, and she found herself grateful that he wasn’t able to marry someone as unique as Aminah. Yet, there was a part of Zahra that didn’t believe this new Zaid that emerged, suddenly understanding where his parents were coming from. It just didn’t add up. And it didn’t seem to help him advance as a Muslim.

  It troubled Zahra that Zaid saw a correlation between Aminah’s e-mail and extreme black power movements, which in reality did not exist on the campus of the college he had attended. Even Zahra knew the Black Power movement was a thing of the past, and that, contrary to what Zaid had implied, it had not been an extreme, backwards political uprising comprised of criminals who patrolled the streets in Afros threatening to shoot any White person they saw. She also knew that an African-American donning a “Black is beautiful” T-shirt neither had mental instability nor any necessary affiliation with the movement. There were people who simply saw Black as beautiful. What was wrong with that?

  Zahra could not relate to, or approve of, Americans’ preoccupation with issues of race, color, and beauty, or their constant finger-pointing at others they deemed guilty of some transgression in these areas. But she also did not see the issues as completely irrelevant to her own culture. This definitely was not something she would discuss with the elders in her family because, really, there was no point. The issue of color and racial awareness, Zahra believed, was an issue of her generation, the Pakistani youth. Her parents and aunts and uncles simply did not have the background or American experience to even comprehend where Zahra and other youth were coming from, and as such, it was not upon the elders to carry this load. Allah would not fault them if they didn’t see black or the many shades of brown on human skin as beautiful or as preferable as white or “fair.” The elders’ load had been one carried in Pakistan, then from Pakistan to America, and still rested on their shoulders in the new land. What they passed on to their children of the struggle, wisdom, and experience of their and their ancestors’ lives in Pakistan, Kashmir, and India was far more critical to the knowledge and upbringing of Pakistani youth than to warrant an undermining evidenced in youth seeking to teach the elders America’s multiculturalism and seeing all colors as beautiful.

  It was such a minute point in light of what the elders had to offer them, yet it was a heavy load on the shoulders of the youth, who would accept the torch passed to them by their parents. Bearing the torch, Zahra’s generation would teach their children the inspirational stories of their parents and grandparents, as well as open their eyes to the multicultural beauty of others around them, a concept that was in reality more Islamic than American. This bearing of the torch was especially important given Pakistani-American youth like Zaid, who sought to practice Islam as it should be practiced, free of opinions and cultural influences that contradicted the pure Islam that had united the hearts of enemies at the time of the Prophet.

  High school was especially memorable to Zahra because it was when she realized that beauty was not limited to her cultural definition. At home Zahra’s pale peach complexion was considered “fair,” and Rabia’s caramel brown tone “dark.” Yet at school Zahra was ignored, practically invisible, in the world of beauty, except to be used as the punch
line of a joke, when a friend would tease another and say Zahra would be his date. Rabia’s circumstance was different. Her smooth caramel skin and dark, full eye lashes and hair earned her the admiration of others, and for her, a friend would tease another and say it was too bad they could never get a date with her because her “culture didn’t allow it.” People would even ask Zahra, a look of shock on their faces, “That’s your sister?” The implications were clear. How on earth could two people on opposite ends of the beauty spectrum actually come from the same mother and father? Yet at home, amongst family, Zahra took center stage.

  Even when Zahra entered college, she was receiving all the marriage proposals while her parents were working hard to find someone for Rabia. It was difficult for Rabia because amongst Pakistanis, “fair” and “attractive” were synonyms as were “dark” and “unattractive.” A woman’s attractiveness depended on the fairness of her skin, and her unattractiveness depended on its darkness. Any other aspect of beauty paled in comparison. If fair skin was not mentioned as a trait of a marriageable woman, it was understood that the silence was because she was “dark.”

  By college, Zahra had come to realize that there were different standards of beauty. However difficult it was for her to accept it, she also realized that the one at school was closer to reality than the one at home. At school, the popular girls were a variety of shades, from honey brown to milk white. Even Zahra realized that the students were actually attractive, and not because of their skin color. Theirs was a holistic beauty that had more to do with features and physique than pale skin.

  Little did Zaid know, Aminah was right. He could benefit from researching the Hindu and British colonial influence, even in his strides to practicing true Islam. If he didn’t realize this, he had essentially dropped the torch that his parents had handed him, stagnating a spiritual maturity that had begun to take root when he took his first steps to practicing Islam.

  Zahra had to talk to him, she realized just then, sooner rather than later. Zaid had made too much progress in spiritual and personal growth, to lose it in an attempt to save face. This wasn’t about Aminah being right, or even Zahra. This was about the future of their family, and Islam.

  Aminah checked her appearance in the full-length mirror secured to the door of her room. She was too nervous to go downstairs. She had no idea whom she would be meeting. Her father had told her the brother was a thirty-year-old entrepreneur who had good character and was strongly devoted to Islam although he had been Muslim for only three years. Aminah was uncomfortable with the idea of marrying someone who had not grown up Muslim. Perhaps she was overreacting, but she imagined that waiting for her in the living room was an ex-thug who had charmed her family into believing he had cleaned up his life and was now ready to live according to the Sunnah. The little Tamika shared of what she had learned about Sister Nusaybah’s second husband scared Aminah into thinking her family too could be fooled by appearances. Her father was so open-minded about her marrying a good brother that she sometimes cringed when he mentioned that someone had asked about her.

  Tonight’s financially independent brother with a six-figure income didn’t sound like someone who didn’t take life seriously. In fact, her father shared that the brother’s father and mother were also Muslim, and this made Aminah relax a little. The brother also wanted to go overseas and study Arabic, something she wanted to do herself. He at least sounded like he was well grounded in the religion. And given his successful business, he most likely had not spent his youth patrolling the streets and selling drugs.

  Sarah had chosen the abiya and khimaar Aminah now wore. It was more decorative than Aminah’s normal tastes would have allowed, but she was just being a bit strait-laced, her mother had said, especially given Islam’s exceptions in these circumstances. Still, Aminah was too shy to go downstairs. Her khimaar was a long rectangular sea green silk that she had wrapped around her head and beneath her chin, secured with a crystal-designed scarf pin at the side of her head. Her abiya was a tan georgette fabric with green thread strokes to match her head cover. Her mother had even applied some kohl to Aminah’s eyes and convinced her to wear lip-gloss.

  “If he’s supposed to see how I normally look,” Aminah had asked, “why do I look like this?”

  “I should hope that on a normal day,” her mother had replied, “you will look like this.”

  Aminah imagined her parents must have been really impressed with the brother to put this much effort into preparing her for the meeting. It was unfortunate though that her mother would not be there, having left shortly after the brother arrived. She had told Aminah she thought it was better if it was just father and daughter this time. Also, Ismael had decided to sit in the dining room where he could see them and they could see him instead of in the living room where he and Sarah could participate directly in the meeting. “What fun is that?” her mother had said. Sarah had already given Ismael her approval of the brother, and besides, she had an important appointment tonight that she couldn’t afford to miss.

  There was a knock on the door, and knowing it was her father, Aminah sighed and opened it.

  “I was thinking to go ahead and start the meeting without you,” her father joked, “but the brother didn’t like the idea.”

  Aminah tried to smile, but she pursed her lips instead.

  Her father winked. “Don’t be nervous. This isn’t a wedding. At least not yet.”

  “I don’t want to go down,” she whined, a smile stealing its way on her face.

  “If you like, you can wear a niqaab,” he suggested, “and take it off at the end.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll just go down like this.” She imagined wearing a face veil would make it that much more awkward to show herself when the brother wanted to see her face.

  Ismael took his daughter’s hand, and Aminah groaned as she dragged her feet as he pulled her along.

  “He doesn’t bite, Aminah,” Ismael said after they reached the foyer and stood next to the entrance to the living room, Aminah hidden behind the wall, her father visible as he tugged her hand. Her father grinned as she met his eyes, and Aminah sensed there was something more going on than he or her mother had mentioned. “But then again,” he said, pulling her into full view, “he told you that when you first met.”

  Aminah creased her forehead a second before she slowly turned to where the brother now stood, having come to his feet as she entered. It took a second for Aminah to place a name with the face, because he was wearing a dark gray suit jacket over a crisp white shirt and suit pants to match the jacket, instead of the faded blue jeans and golf shirt he normally wore. A hand came to her mouth as her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened as she recognized Abdur-Rahman smiling hesitantly at her. Abdur-Rahman was in her living room. Without the birds or hamster.

  Blood rushed to her cheeks, and she wanted to hurry back up the stairs. But her father was standing next to her, and she knew that was not an option. Instead she turned to her father, begging him with her eyes. Please don’t make me sit in there. Pleeeeaaaase. In reply, he held her hand and guided her into the living room, and she dropped her gaze until she was sure all Abdur-Rahman could see of her was the green silk on top of her head.

  “I don’t think she believed me when I told her you didn’t bite,” Ismael joked. She heard Abdur-Rahman’s nervous laughter.

  “I thought leaving Freddie and Freda at home with Charlie would do the trick.”

  Aminah felt herself being guided to sit down on the couch, which was next to the loveseat on which Abdur-Rahman sat. She knew that the brother was sitting near only because her lowered gaze allowed her to see the brother’s black dress socks on his feet that were crossed at the ankle. She was grateful when her father continued to hold her hand and sit next to her, and she squeezed his hand, letting him know that she would allow him to go nowhere that put more than two inches between them.

  Aminah felt as if her cheeks were on fire, and she worried that she would faint. She should have b
een upset with her parents for setting her up like this, but she was too overwhelmed with shock to be offended. But she imagined her annoyance with them would be voiced soon enough. For now, she had to make it through the next hour, one second at a time.

  “Why don’t we start with the greetings?” Ismael suggested. Aminah knew her father was smiling by the sound of his voice, but she refused to raise her head.

  “As-salaamu’alaikum.” It was Abdur-Rahman’s voice, she knew, but it was as if she were hearing it for the first time. The feeling was similar to the one she had upon hearing Zaid’s through the phone. Abdur-Rahman’s voice was not only deeper than she remembered, but deeper than Zaid’s had sounded on the phone. If she didn’t know who was sitting across from her, she would have judged that his voice suggested he was a brother of good character and upbringing. He sounded like a respectable gentleman, a sharp contract to the eccentric tree hugger she imagined when she met him at his house. Perhaps, she could keep her head down the whole night, that way she didn’t have to remember he was only “Teddy”, whose best friends were birds.

  She heard her father chuckle. “The usual response following such a greeting is ‘wa’alaiku mus-salaam, pumpkin.”

  Aminah felt her cheeks grow warm, and she wanted to poke her father. He was not making this easy for her.

  “Pumpkin?”

  Inside, she groaned. Abi, why are you doing this to me? “Wa’alaiku mus-salaam,” she mumbled loud enough for it to at least count as a sound. She hoped that would satisfy them.

  “I guess Aminah doesn’t have any questions at the moment,” Ismael said. “So I guess you can warm up by asking her some.”

  She heard Abdur-Rahman’s nervous chuckle, and she knew he wasn’t prepared to ask her anything. He was the one who had made the proposal—had actually proposed!—and probably hadn’t prepared himself for anything other than her shock and interrogation.