Sharing Some Fiction ...

Ali

By Shadya Ahmed

My heart gave a sudden thump in my chest as the customs officers stamped my passport. This was it. No turning back now. My husband Mohamed, sensing my unease took my hand and squeezed it tightly.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘They’re going to love you, trust me,’ he looked down at me and smiled.

I tried to give him a reassuring look but I was still shook up by the movie we saw last week. Why did Mohamed think that it would be a good idea a week before I leave my small hometown of Lapwai, Illinois to move to the Middle East, to take me to see a movie about an American woman who was tricked by her husband into going to Yemen, and then forced to stay there? I knew that Dubai was a modern city and I knew my husband would never do such a thing, but there was still this little voice at the back of my mind nagging that maybe the stereotypes I heard were true.

I was especially worried about meeting his family. What if they hated me? Watching Mohamed as he stood in line to buy us coffee before the flight, I thought back to the first time we met. I was a waitress at a University restaurant oddly enough called Habeebys.

By its name which means my love in Arabic, Habeebys used to attract a lot of Arabic students and customers. It was the last hour of my shift when a tall man with dark wavy hair sat at one of my tables. I inwardly sighed, after a five hour shift I was exhausted, but dutifully grabbed a menu and headed towards the table. I set down the menu and asked the man if he would like

something to drink. He looked up at me and smiled and said, ‘chicken’.

I was a little taken back but I said, ‘alright what kind of chicken would you like?’

He just smiled at me again and repeated chicken. After numerous attempts and the same answer I brought him back a whole chicken from the kitchen. He looked a bit overwhelmed as I set the plate in front of him but he dutifully ate every last bite. He kept looking at me and smiling throughout. I noticed his nose was a little bit crooked but I was captivated by his kind eyes and it was from that moment I was hooked. Mohamed speaks perfect English now and has even managed to teach me some Arabic. Unfortunately the job market being as bad as it is has forced us to move to Mohamed’s hometown of Dubai.

As soon as we stepped out of terminal four of Dubai International airport we we’re greeted by an overwhelming crowd of people. Women covered from head to toe in black danced around Mohamed and showered him with kisses. The men came forward shaking his hand. I stood in the background trying to smooth back my hair that was getting frizzy due to the humidity; I wanted to make a good first impression. The women finally noticed me and they all came forward like a huge black swarm hugging me and telling Mohamed how beautiful I was. I was a little overwhelmed but at least it was better than the cold reception I was expecting. Everyone seemed so nice and friendly. It wasn’t until we got into the car that the interrogation began.

As soon as the car hit the highway Mohamed’s mother turned to me, smiled, touched my stomach and asked, ‘so when are you going to give me a grandchild? You know if it’s a boy he’s going to be named Ali after his great grandfather.’

My heart gave a quick thud in my chest, I gave Mohamed a panicked look but he just smiled and said, ‘Mother, we just got married six months ago, ease off on the questions’.

She opened her eyes wide and said, ‘Is that anyway to talk to your mother? And anyway I was asking Leena not you.’

Mohamed visibly shrank into his seat. She turned back to me and smiled and asked me the question again. This time Mohamed didn’t come to my rescue and I was obliged to answer in my halting Arabic I wasn’t sure if I wanted children. Apparently this was the wrong thing to say. All the women in the car gasped and then proceeded all at once to tell me how my role as a wife was to give my husband children, and what a privilege and joy it was. Throughout the inquisition I tried to catch Mohamed’s eye and get some reassurance from him but apparently he was a bigger mama’s boy than I thought because after a few sharp words from his mother he just shrank into his seat.

Mohamed and I had only a couple of minutes alone to set our suitcases in our new apartment before we were dragged to yet another relative’s house for lunch. In those few minutes alone Mohamed tried to convince me to ignore his mother and aunts. It was just old lady talk he insisted and nobody thought that way anymore. Lunch was nice, everyone seemed to have forgotten the whole “baby” scandal and I relaxed a little amongst their teasing, bantering, and gossip. It wasn’t until the women retired to a different room to have tea that the subject of children came up again. My mother in-law started referring to me as Um Ali, which means the mother of Ali. I was a little confused until a relative pointed out to me that in Arabic custom the mother and father are usually referred to by their oldest son’s name. I felt a surge of annoyance but tried to mask it. I had just arrived. I needed to make a good impression. It wasn’t until my mother in-law mentioned how I would probably have five children that I snapped.

‘I will not have any children,’ I screamed at her in my broken Arabic, and even if I do I will not name my son Ali. My body is my own and I decide whether Mohamed and I have children or not. If he doesn’t like it he can marry a nice Arabic girl to give you your five grandchildren.’ The room then descended into silence.

Nobody asked me about children after that, and every time a distant relative did, I could see my mother in-law cringe. But by that time I had learned from a younger relative that the only way to avoid such problems is to answer Inshalla, in God’s will. However, it took my mother in-law a long time to forgive me. She only forgave me two years later after I had given her a grandson. I named him Ali.