I did a double take. I wasn’t used to such direct questions. Girls were more subtle. None of them would admit that they studied at all or that they were trying for universities that might not accept them. At most, they might ask if a test had gone well, and even if you’d aced it, you had to say you did just okay or the others would think you were being proud, which was worse than being stupid.
“If people knew you were trying for something, they might try for it, too, or cast an evil eye,” Aisha always said. She wrote Bismillah-ur-Rahman-ur-Rahim at the top of all her tests to ward off bad luck.
I said, “I haven’t got the scores back yet. But I don’t want to leave the country.”
“Why not?” Faraz asked. “Many universities offer scholarships, and with your brains, you’d easily get one.”
It was none of his business. So easy for men to just set out on their adventures, leave everyone else behind. Even if I could leave, even if every cell in my body ached for scholarships that I wouldn’t get, what was I supposed to do, abandon Mishail and my mother? Give up on my father?
I said the words I’d heard my father say a hundred times: “Better a prisoner in your own house than a guest in someone else’s.”
Faraz’s face cleared, as if he’d just received some great revelation in my answer. The doorbell rang, and he went to answer it. I tiptoed to the closed door where my mother was talking to Hossein and his wife.
From beyond the thick wooden doors came a high-pitched noise that nearly made my heart stop. My mother was crying as if her heart had just been broken, a terrible, gut-wrenching sound.
I should have stayed to learn more, but I couldn’t bear to hear it for another second. I backed away from the door and returned to the sofa in a daze. I’d been sitting there a few minutes when Faraz returned and said, “Looks like they’re done.”
Sure enough, the great wooden doors were open, and the three adults were coming out. I was glad my mother was wearing her veil, covering even her eyes. I didn’t want to see the answers I knew I’d see, and I certainly didn’t want Faraz to see her like that. Not that he would say anything, but still.
“So you managed to find us!” Hossein said, looking as if he’d been through a sleepless night. “Good girl, good girl. You take care of your mother now, you hear me?”
I nodded, irritated that he thought I wasn’t already doing that.
“And you’re studying hard? Your mother says you’re going to study accounting, help her out with the catering business.”
“Law,” I said through my teeth. My mother’s disapproval seeped through the veil.
“Same thing, of course,” Hossein said obliviously. “Law and business, all about numbers. Sorting out inheritance, that sort of thing. Quick, what’s three hundred and ninety-five times three?”
“One thousand, one hundred and eighty-five.”
Hossein made a sound of amazed appreciation and asked a few more questions. “Any time you want a job here, it’s yours,” he said, laughing. “You can be my accountant, or maybe tutor this boy of mine in exchange for some”—he coughed discreetly as he whispered the word driving so only I would hear—“lessons.”
Faraz blushed, and I gave Hossein a grudging smile.
“But no, that would be holding you back. You’ll go far, no question about it. I think you’re even sharper than your father was!”
Hossein must have realized from my expression that he’d said something wrong, because his voice fell to a mumble, and he showed us out. I walked briskly home alongside my mother. I wanted to ask, What’s going on? What were you guys talking about? But we’d stopped talking to each other long ago about anything except the basic necessities of life.
I hate you, I’d said.
Grow up. Stop sulking as if I’m the reason he’s gone, and stop acting like a baby. I can’t take care of both of us right now.
Fine. I don’t need you anyway.
My heart burned and pulsed, a sun bereft of its planets.
5
HIJRA
Faraz was right. The tension couldn’t last, and never did. But in Saudi Arabia, change always came with the sudden violence of a sandstorm, so that when it was over, you couldn’t even remember what used to be, and you certainly had no time to grieve.
One day I woke up panting from a nightmare in which I’d overslept and missed a test. I had overslept, but there was no missed test. The news reporter, with her plastic face that shone out from the hijab, insisted that everything was fine, that the National Guard was out in full force, ensuring the safety of all citizens.
“You have to learn how to read her face, not just listen to her words,” my mother said, squeezing my shoulders in uncharacteristic affection. “She’s terrified.”
So the latest in the line of cave-dwelling fanatics had declared that the reopening of KAUST under the protection of the American military was a sign of the final decline and humiliation of the Muslim world and had to be avenged at any cost.
“We just can’t win,” Fatima Aunty said, rocking back and forth. “Women aren’t allowed to work alongside men because they wouldn’t be safe from harassment. So we open a coed university to train people and that gets closed because of terrorist threats. We reopen it, and now all girls’ schools are under threat. What do they want us to do, crawl under a rock and wait to die?”
“Yes,” my mother said, her chuckle so bitter it made me shudder. “Or move to Hofuf and eat cockroaches.”
It was her long-running joke when she was frustrated that we’d move to Hofuf, where the late King Abdullah had set up a walled city for women alone. It was rumored that out there in the middle of nowhere, Palestinian refugees and Yemeni ex-prostitutes survived on rats and desert locusts.
For the rest of the day the news on Channel 1, the free public station Mishail affectionately called “Butt-Kiss TV,” showed nonstop footage of royalty and government ministers, including Mishail’s father, walking to and from the Majlis Al-Shura with smiling faces.
Everything’s fine, see?
But on Al Jazeera, which we got because of our neighbor’s illegal but hidden satellite dish, young boys chased after school buses with darkened windows in the Rowdah district, throwing rocks at the panes. “Stop stealing our jobs, ugly bitches!” one of them shouted at the camera in English. I flinched, not used to hearing curses flung so casually. Another young man came up to the first and threw an arm around him.
The reporter asked him in English, “Are you also concerned about the high unemployment rate among Saudi youth?”
The second man blinked in confusion. He said, “If they get jobs, they don’t want to marry. They want too much mahr. Blackmail is un-Islamic!”
The two young men chanted that last in unison.
“She shouldn’t be watching this,” Fatima Aunty said to my mother.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m leaving.”
When my mind refused to quiet, I phoned Mishail. Naturally, we couldn’t talk about what was actually happening, but I just needed to hear her voice.
“What are you up to?” I asked. “Just talk, okay?”
“You know my window, the one in my room?” Mishail said.
“Yes?”
“I found out recently that the style of it is called a harem window,” Mishail said, laughing. “It’s the old Hejazi style, for, uh, those kinds of women to see out into the street and call over men they liked.”
“Because you can see out, but you can’t see in,” I said, remembering the decorative wooden shutters and the broad sill that allowed someone to sit and look down into the street without being seen.
“Exactly. So I’ve been sitting naked at my window for the last two hours. I can feel the breeze against my skin, but no one can see me. Ha!”
I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes. No matter how bad a situation got, you could always trust Mishail to find a way to laugh, to make a joke about it, to rebel quietly against fathers and muttaween and teachers and anyone else who got in h
er way.
I held the phone tightly, glad Mishail wasn’t expecting me to speak.
Things seemed to settle in the way they always did. The government made a concession to the religious authorities that would reassure them … until the next scandal. When they announced that KASP scholarships would no longer be available to women except when no acceptable male candidate could be found, I started laughing. I felt I’d expected it, that it was what had choked me up on the phone with Mishail. Not what had already happened, but what I knew would have to happen next to restore peace.
Schools—most of them—reopened on Saturday, after being closed for a week. Armed guards were stationed outside the gates, which meant no more sneaking out to get ice cream. The second floor had broken windows, the ones high enough for rocks thrown over the brick walls to reach a target. The name of the school, Nizamiyyah Secondary, once so prominent that it was visible three blocks down, had been painted over completely.
Most disturbing of all, new girls at the school had green uniforms instead of blue, and stared at us warily like hunted animals. Speakers had been installed in the hallways, and Maryam Madam’s voice rang out over them as she called a special assembly.
We snapped out of our chairs, years of practice helping us to don our abayas and veils and form the requisite line in a matter of seconds. Aisha was the shortest, at the front of the line, her eyes wide with worry. Behind her stood Mishail, with her arms on Aisha’s shoulders, elbows bent like a compressed spring. Once we were in the hallway, the spring lengthened as the girls took the required one-arm distance from one another. Similar lines emerged from other doors, and the girls in the classroom closest to the fire escape were already on their way down the stairs. In single file, we marched, shoving one another gently. People kept whispering, “What do you think this is about?” and “Leena, you must know. You always know everything.”
I didn’t know, and the uncertainty was driving me insane.
In the auditorium, Maryam Madam coughed into the microphone. With a great thundering, an auditorium full of girls clicked their black buckled heels together and stood up straight and silent.
“My dear girls, I want to start by saying how glad I am that you are here with us today. Our numbers have shrunk in the last few days, for reasons you know well. Your teachers and I would like nothing better than to shield you from the things that happen outside these walls, things that should not be your concern. The last few days have been trying for all of us, but probably most for the students and staff of Najd National School. They could not return to their own campus, and so we welcome them to join us and share what we have.”
Thunderous applause broke out in the auditorium, along with cheers and completely inappropriate whistles. Mishail turned around from the front of the line and caught my gaze. My chest seized up with nearly unbearable happiness. This. This was why I wouldn’t want to leave, even if it were possible. Where else would you find a community that would bear you up in disaster without question or hesitation, asking nothing in return?
“At this time,” Maryam Madam said, “let me remind you of the prophet’s own journey, the one that began our history and is at the heart of our values as a community, as a people. Life in Mecca had become unendurable for Muhammad (peace be upon him). His own family and friends threatened to kill him. After days in the hot desert, he landed in Medina and was given shelter. The people of Medina welcomed him into their hearts, trusted him so much that they asked him to be their adjudicator when the tribes began quarreling. In his name, I ask you to take our newest guests into your hearts, to trust your sisters in these troubled times.”
Sofia whispered in my ear, “Why would we not trust them?”
I shrugged and strained to see the headmistress’s face. She seemed anxious. I noticed something I should’ve seen before. Next to her stood a woman clad head to toe in a gray jellaba. It had no embroidery of any kind. Her face had neither crow’s-feet nor wrinkles, and her mouth, completely without even the slightest gloss, was the same lifeless color as her skin. Her eyes, the only signs of life, were two black marbles that darted around the auditorium restlessly.
Maryam Madam said, “And with that, I invite the headmistress of Najd National to say a few words.”
She stepped back from the microphone. The woman in the gray jellaba took a step forward and grabbed it.
If I hadn’t been watching Maryam Madam so carefully, I would have missed the cloud of worry that passed over her face. It was gone almost immediately.
“Hello, girls,” said the woman. Her voice quavered, with nervousness or emotion I couldn’t tell. “You can call me Naseema Madam. I was the headmistress of Najd National until recently. I want to thank you all, particularly Maryam here, for the warm welcome.”
Maryam Madam’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
“I wanted to take a moment to address my girls, to comfort them in this difficult time, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure what to say. I’m not as great a speaker as Maryam, whose words flow faster than the rivers of Jordan.”
There was nervous laughter. I wondered whether Naseema Madam was just a bad speaker or if she had meant to insult Maryam Madam in some way.
“Maryam’s discussion of the hijra helped me find some words. I want to tell my girls that the way forward is not by complaining about the unfairness of what has happened to us. To complain is to question the will of God. In times like this, our faith becomes more important than ever. Back at Najd National, we held ourselves to high standards in all respects. Some of our teachers were men, so we showed discipline in our dress, in our daily prayers, and in our studies. We showed modesty in our attire and in our accomplishments. We will continue to do this here and earn the respect of our hosts. Do I make myself clear?”
There was silence in the hall. We at Nizamiyyah had never been spoken to like this, as if we were six-year-olds. And one of the rare pleasures of an all-girls school was that we didn’t have to wear our abaya and hijab indoors, when we were among only other women. Did she really expect her girls to stay veiled even inside?
“What a garawiyya!” Sofia said. The word meant a woman who was backward, who had arrived straight from the village.
I chuckled. To my surprise, Maryam Madam heard us. Her eyes sparked with a fury I had never seen, and certainly never seen directed at me.
She took the microphone back from Naseema Madam.
“We have much to learn from our new friends,” she said, and her eyes were still fixed on me. “Although some of you are newer than others, I want you to know that you will be treated fairly and equally at this school. Naseema here is not my guest, she is a headmistress of this school as much as I am. An insult to her is an insult to me.”
I shifted on my feet guiltily. Maryam Madam must have seen it, because she relaxed, and her voice became softer.
She said, “When Muhammad heard the call of the angel Jibrail on Mount Hira, he was not a young man. He didn’t want his life to change. He had wealth, fame, a wife … all of which had been difficult to acquire because he was an orphan. He’d built himself up out of nothing. And yet, at the age of fifty-two, he started over. Not many people could survive something like that. None of you children can understand what it means to survive something like that. But life in Mecca had become impossible. It’s true that he escaped persecution and found hospitality in Medina. It’s true that all hijra means these days is safety from physical danger. But Muhammad brought something more to that first hijra. Starting over takes courage, a special kind of courage that people lose as they get older, or when they have more to lose than to gain by giving up their old ways. Naseema and her girls have shown great courage in coming to us. So I’d like my girls to honor it by opening your hearts to these women who are strong but not hard, who are able to adapt without losing their religion, and who are willing to move forward without growing bitter. Can you girls do that for me?”
There was silence. Most of the girls in the auditorium were either crying, nodding,
or both. I was digging my nails into my palms and clenching my teeth, unable to cope with the shame that threatened to drag me out to sea.
6
FAISALIYAH
Two days later, I realized that Mishail had gone completely mad. To be fair, Mishail had always been a little mad. But this special blend of constantly trembling lips and utterly insane plans was brand new and had everything to do with the new girl in our class, Daria Abulkhair.
“Let’s be extra nice to her,” I’d said the day of the assembly, inspired by Maryam Madam’s speech and seeing Daria’s solitary green uniform in our sea of blue. “Joining a new school in senior year? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
It turned out (naturally) Mishail had already adopted the new girl. Daria was half American and top of her class, and she had just been selected to emcee a weekend TV show for kids.
“Stuffed-puppet show or funny-voices show?” I asked.
Mishail shoved me in the ribs. “You said be nice!”
Law class began. Batool Madam pointed Daria to a seat in the front row.
“I don’t know what you’ve been told about our school,” Batool Madam said. “But I don’t like style without substance. You have to really know your material. And I don’t tolerate any smart talk, you hear me? I’m keeping an eye on you.”
Daria raised a hand. “Are we allowed to ask questions?”
“Of course,” Batool Madam said, but then added, “But not so many that you’re distracting the other girls. This is not your time to catch up. If you’re falling behind, just read the textbook quietly and get help from the others later. Now, all of you, turn to the chapter on marriage. And no laughing! This is a serious, important subject. What are you going to use for the rest of your life, this or your silly variables x and y?”
Nervous giggles broke out. Mishail and I glanced at each other, unable to contain our excitement. Finally! It was only in senior year that we were allowed to learn about marriage, and we’d already read the entire chapter as soon as the textbooks arrived.
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