ISHRAGAT

by Amani Elkassabani

A cluster of cumin seeds sizzled on the surface of olive oil at the bottom of the pot. Noor gazed at the seeds as the thick fragrance of cumin found its way onto her hair and skin—even into the fibers of her clothes—where it settled. Noor usually took comfort in the lingering scent, but not today. Her head hurt so much that she felt a little explosion inside her temples each time a cumin seed popped. She stared at the seeds flitting about, swelling up, seemingly holding their breath until, one by one, they burst, allowing beads of oil to flood their hollow remains.

Noor's mother, Salwa, had been cooking all morning. Platters brimming with savory dishes were assembled and ready to be placed in the warm oven where they would remain until the arrival of tonight's guest. Salwa moved from dish to dish with great energy, ladling some of the succulent juices onto the roast lamb with garlic, squeezing a bit of fresh lime juice on the fried eggplant, garnishing the cabbage rolls with sprigs of flat parsley. An aroma of toasted cumin seeds filtered into the garlicky air, emanated through the Fairfax townhouse, and wafted as far as the front porch before it dissipated in the scent of jasmine blossoms.

Salwa positioned herself before the large pot on the stovetop and grasped its handles. On each of her arms, a column of gold bangles slid up and down as she swirled the seeds around in the oil. Noor saw Salwa's reflection clearly in the gleaming stovetop. Even now, after having spent several hours in the kitchen, she looked elegant. A teardrop earring dangled from each of her well-proportioned earlobes and swung slightly when she moved her head. Beneath eyelids lined heavily with kohl, her black eyes shone as brightly as the gold chain around her neck.

Noor inherited her mother's beauty, if not her penchant for cooking. Her ginger-colored complexion was radiant. Beneath arching black eyebrows, Noor's brown eyes fixed on her mother's reflection. From the depths of her heart, Noor adored this woman who had sacrificed so much of herself for others. Salwa gave this day to her family as she had given all the other days of her life to them. She did it so that everything would be perfect. At that moment, a droplet of oil landed on the stovetop, marring Salwa's reflection and reminding Noor how unlike her mother she was.

As a child, Noor was fond of spending many hours with her mother in the kitchen. She saw artistry in her mother's fingers stuffing rice into cabbage leaves made malleable by scalding water. But lately Noor would rather read the World News section of the Washington Post than watch her mother cook. Once, Noor admired her mother's discipline in serving her father and his guests before she herself sat down to eat. But now Noor could not help sneaking a plate of food before the men had even touched it.

Salwa was directing Noor to add the rice, but Noor was looking at the seeds again, listening to their gentle hissing, their secret whispering. Buffeted by an oily tide, the seeds sputtered out the story of past life, Noor imagined, and she could feel her own life slipping away. But she was not like the seeds; she would act.

At seventeen, Noor was promised to a man she had only seen in a photograph. Her father had arranged everything. Her mother had cooked copious amounts of food. Tonight, her engagement would become official. All that was required of her was her silence, her sukuut.

Ali would be arriving any minute and there was still work to do. Mariam, Noor's older sister who usually helped Salwa in the kitchen, was of no use today. Pregnant with her first child, Mariam suffered from horrible bouts of morning sickness. The smell of raw meat had made her so nauseated earlier that she had vomited on the kitchen floor. Salwa exiled her from the kitchen and summoned Noor to take her place. Noor was not looking forward to meeting Ali. She would rather be in her room, reading the paper she had hidden under her pillow; but the love she bore Salwa compelled her to stand by her side.

"Hurry," said her mother, alerting her to the fact that the seeds were ready. Noor dutifully added grains of raw rice that had been carefully picked over. The last handful of rice only half-made it to the pot.

"Noor, my God, look what you've done," admonished Salwa.

"I'm sorry, Ummi."

"What's the matter, child?" asked Salwa, sensing her daughter's anxiety about the impending meeting.

Noor looked at her mother tearfully and choked, "What's the matter? My life is over, that's all."

Noor wanted to believe that Salwa empathized with her. She recalled the story of her mother's own marriage which Salwa had recounted many times, reminding her that she must do her duty as an obedient daughter would, just as her sister Mariam had done last year and just as Salwa herself had done nearly twenty years ago. Noor knew that Salwa was fourteen when she married a man of her father's choosing. Refusal would have been impossible for Salwa because it would have amounted to her family's dishonor. Salwa's mother, as a courteous formality, had asked her if she approved of the young man. As expected, Salwa remained silent. In keeping with an ancient Arabic proverb, silence signaled approval: Al-sukuut 'alaamat al-ridhah. Silence is a sign of contentment. Salwa's silence had been interpreted in the customary manner.

Salwa sighed and cleaned up the spilled rice. "Noor, you'll be fine."

Hearing her mother sigh, Noor wondered if her silence nineteen years ago had meant something other than contentment.

"Please understand, Ummi," whispered Noor.

"I do, I do. But you must trust God, habibti," said Salwa, drawing her daughter into her bosom. "Take what He gives you and make the best of it," she added, stroking Noor's head.

"God would want me to speak up," said Noor without hesitation.

"Noor, watch what you say!" retorted Salwa, gripping her daughter's shoulders. "I was much younger than you when I married your father and God has. . . ."

Salwa hesitated.

Noor entertained the notion that her mother might entreat her father on Noor's behalf to call off the engagement, or at least postpone it.

"God has given me two beautiful daughters and guaranteed me a home in Paradise," Salwa continued.

Noor dropped her head in disappointment. Salwa gently raised Noor's chin and looked solemnly into her eyes. "Whatever you do," she pleaded, "do not disrespect your father tonight."

The doorbell rang and Noor knew that it must be Ali. She remained fixed in her spot and her body tensed. She listened to her father greet the dinner guest and invite him in.

Hearing her husband's deep voice from the living room and being a generous and hospitable woman, Salwa was momentarily distracted from Noor's anxieties. She cut their conversation short and handed Noor a tray of candied fruits and nuts. "We'll talk more later. Take this out to your father and our guest."

Noor adjusted her headscarf and glided into the living room. She set the tray down on the mahogany table and kept her gaze lowered, remembering the Qur'anic verse her father frequently quoted: And say to the believing women that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty. . . . She had memorized it along with the previous verse: Say to the believing men that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty. . . . even though her father never quoted that one. She had learned it through her own study of the Qur'an.

She heard justice and tolerance in God's words when she read them herself. Her father had a way of twisting them into something harsh, something narrow, as if he alone knew the mind of God. Despite her mother's admonition, Noor truly believed that God would want her to speak. Speaking is a divine act, Noor thought. God taught Adam the names. He commanded His Prophet to recite. The Qur'an even told of unnamed prophets to whom God had spoken. She imagined at least one of them being a woman, maybe even a girl like herself.

When she saw Ali for the first time, Noor wanted to scream, "I will not marry you!" and be done with it. Instead, a formal salutation squeezed through her tightened throat and escaped her delicate lips, "Assalamu 'Alaikum."

Ali and her father replied in unison, "Wa 'Alaikum Assalam."

Noor said no more, fearing she would appear immodest. But she lingered for a moment, fingering her scarf, glancing up at her father. She thought she detected a hint of tenderness in his hard black eyes before he averted them from hers.

Noor remembered a time during her childhood when she frequently appeared before her father's guests bareheaded. Then, he not only encouraged her to engage in conversation with his guests, but also insisted that she recite Qur'an for them. She had memorized the entire thirtieth part of the Qur'an under her father's direction before the age of ten and he had rewarded her with her very own gold embossed copy of the holy book. But he began withholding his affections on the day she became a woman.

Since the morning that Noor woke to find blood in her underpants, her father had become distant. Noor's only solace came from Salwa, who had rejoiced in her daughter's womanhood. She had given Noor a box of feminine napkins and a half-dozen pastel scarves. Noor used the pads to conceal what made her female and the scarves to cover up what made her feminine. Noor's father had made it clear that she must wear the scarf every day—to school, to her friend Angela's house (especially there because of Angela's older brother)—even though the weight of other people's stares was sometimes unbearable.

She wondered if Ali was staring at her now. Her father cleared his throat and Noor turned to leave, but not before she shot a furtive glance Ali's way. She was surprised, for Ali looked even more handsome than his photograph. He was tall and slim. His olive-complexioned face was clean-shaven, revealing a dimpled chin and smooth cheeks. She admired his boyish face and wondered—on her way back to the kitchen—whether he was really nine years her senior. Refusing him would be harder than she thought.

"Hmm?" asked Salwa. "What do you think of him?"

"Does it really matter what I think, Ummi?" asked Noor, marching out of the kitchen before her mother could respond.

When it was time for dinner, Noor noticed that Ali shuffled into the dining room uneasily, like someone about to receive a prize he didn't feel as though he had earned. An instant later, his brown eyes sparkled and the corners of his mouth turned up when he saw the platters of food displayed on the table like a row of resplendent treasure chests offering up their jewels.

"May God bless your hands," he complimented Noor's mother, who glowed with pride.

Since Mariam was still feeling ill, she did not join them for dinner. Mariam was a taciturn girl by nature; she hadn't raised a single objection to her own arranged marriage. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that her husband lived in Saudi Arabia six months out of the year. He was there now and Mariam was staying at home until he returned. Unlike Mariam, Noor did not prefer silence, but took refuge in it when her father was present.

Noor's father sat at the head of the table, her mother at the opposite end. Noor and Ali faced each other, but she avoided looking directly at him. "In the name of God," proclaimed Noor's father, a signal that dinner had begun.

Noor's mother patted Ali on the shoulder with an easy familiarity and said, "Eat up, my son." When she piled huge chunks of meat and mounds of rice in front of Ali, he used the pretext that he was a slow eater to temper her generosity; but Salwa knew he was merely being polite and added several more cabbage rolls to his plate before doing the same for Noor's father.

Between bites of food, Noor's father interjected Ali's achievements: a doctorate in engineering from the American University in Cairo; consulting work in foreign countries; job offers from Georgetown and UVa. Noor's father had already chosen Ali to be her future husband, but he continued to glance discreetly at his daughter, trying to discern her impression of the young man. Noor detected this and forced herself to believe, despite the rift that had come between them, that her father still cared for her.

The rift itself was neither the result of an argument nor of her disobedience. It was a gradual estrangement her father had imposed, she thought, arbitrarily. She did not know that on the day she became a woman, her father grew anxious. When his guests' eyes had begun to fix on Noor's beautiful face a bit longer than he thought proper, his anxieties intensified.

He worried about her when she left the house. He knew that next year she would want to attend college. What would he do then? Noor's father shuddered at the possibility that she would meet, or worse yet, fall in love with, a man who would not make a suitable husband. He heard voices in his head ridiculing him for not marrying her sooner, like he had done with Mariam. Her imminent marriage to Ali muted those voices and minimized his anxiety. He knew could not keep her at home. But at least he could arrange her marriage.

Noticing that her father had not spoken for several seconds, Noor looked at her mother and said, "Ummi, this is delicious."

"Yes, delicious," added Ali. He and Noor exchanged a quick glance and a smile. Her father, finishing the last of his cumin rice, reclined in his chair. His comfortable manner surprised her. Perhaps he would be comfortable enough to hear her out tonight.

Noor felt herself relax a bit. Ali began talking of his recent travels to Kuwait and Syria. When he mentioned that he had been to Afghanistan, Noor interjected, "If we were in Afghanistan now, I would not be allowed to go school."

Ali was not expecting this, but he managed to reply, "Yes. It is unfortunate that Afghani girls are denied the right to an education."
There was a brief silence around the table and all eyes were on Noor, who felt empowered that she had shifted the conversation to a topic that interested her.

"School," said her father disparagingly, "Why do women need to go to school? As long as they know the word of God, that is sufficient. A woman's tongue is best used in praise of her Creator."

Before Noor could reply, Ali offered, "Yes, sir, but they are taught to read the Qur'an at school."

"First the Qur'an, then what?" answered her father. "You," he continued, pointing imperiously at Noor, "read newspapers that print nothing but lies about Islam."

"Abi, with all due respect, some Muslims do not understand the religion as you do." She paused and let her father rejoice in self-satisfaction before she continued, "Did you know that Muslim girls in the Ivory Coast are forced to marry men twice their age?"

"Marriage is sacred in the eyes of God!" her father shot back.

Noor's fears tied her tongue. Salwa sat silently with her hands folded in her lap. Ali, wishing to become a spectator now, only smiled weakly. Noor noticed that a cumin seed was lodged between his two front teeth.

She remembered the hissing of the seeds. A seed that was once a flower ripening into a fruit, feeling the sun and the rain, feeding off a stem that thrust roots down into the soil, was now dry and brown, coated with oil, scattered among grains of rice, pulverized by human teeth, passing through human intestines.

Noor looked at her father and asked, "What kind of marriage, Abi?"

"Noor, that is enough," commanded her father, appalled at his daughter's temerity.

"A marriage that does not need a girl's consent?"

"Silence!" he bellowed.

Salwa gasped. There was a brief silence. Al-sukuut 'alaamat al-ridhah. The proverb echoed in Noor's ears. She weighed the consequences of refusing to remain silent. If Ali did not marry her, he would marry someone else. Any woman would be lucky to have him. He was not a desperate, balding old man like Mariam's husband; he was attractive, educated, polite.

Noor's mother would be heartbroken, not because she had refused Ali, but because her refusal would dishonor her father. Noor would have to explain her decision to him. That meant she would have to talk to him. She knew they had barely spoken to each other in months. But she could make a fresh start with her father. She was willing to try.

Noor looked at Ali's plate. He was done eating. She was not so unrefined that she would disappoint a guest before he had been properly fed. She was forthright without being insensitive.

She bit her lip and announced, "Ali, I cannot marry you." Noor's father rose from his seat and moved to the opposite corner of the room, turning away from his family and the guest. But Noor knew he was listening.

"I'm sorry, Ali, but I barely know you." Noor looked at Salwa, whose eyes were filling with tears. "I do not even know myself yet," she said, reaching across the table to take her mother's hand. Turning again to Ali, she continued, "When I've had the opportunities you've had—college, work, travel—I hope you will come to dinner again. Maybe then, we can talk."

http://miznza.org