DISCLAIMER: I am not Arabic, Middle Eastern, or Muslim. Any information utilized in the following story comes from limited research I conducted to try writing from another worldview/perspective. Neither I nor my writing speak for other cultures, and I understand there may be several inaccuracies. Please, if something is offensive or inaccurate, let me know so I can either take down this post or address the concern. 

That said, I absolutely adored trying to write this and learn more about Middle Eastern culture. It was incredible to write from a perspective outside of the standard American one I am accustomed to. I hope you enjoy the story!

~ ~ ~

Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire

The embers flicker in the night, drawing me closer, closer—

“Zafiah!” my mother shouts, pulling me close and away from the glittering flames. Her arms suffocate me for a moment as she examines my skin for burns. “How many times have I told you not to stand so close?” she asks.

I say nothing, meeting her glittering eyes with my own dark pair. She straightens and lets me go, shaking her head subtly and touching her finger to her forehead. “Allah help me, what will I do with you, my child?”

Glancing over her shoulder at the men conversing behind the sakina—house—my mother shakes her head and offers me her hand. In her palm, I see a comforting place: warm, but never hot enough to burn; caring, but never bold enough to inspire.

I take her hand, and we walk towards the house, while I steal glances back at the flickering flames.

“Thank goodness your father’s friends didn’t see you,” she says. Her voice lilts as she speaks, and even chastisements sound beautiful coming from her. Before she closes the door, I steal one last glance at the bonfire, and I catch her looking too.

“The fire is beautiful,” she says, gaze lingering on the flames. It takes me a moment to realize she has switched to English, her mother’s birth language. “But deadly.”

Shaking her head, she pulled the door closed.

~ ~ ~

Seven years later, and I’m fourteen, running from my mother and the hijab she holds. I still see her disappointed gaze, but I don’t care.

I race around the corner and see Amal, leaning casually against the wall. He grins to see me, and we kiss each other’s cheeks in greeting. I pull back, and he doesn’t have to ask—he just knows.

“She asked you to wear it today, didn’t she?” he says.

I nod, mutely, fighting back tears and unsure what else to say. Amal shifts his feet and turns away. “I can’t talk to you anymore,” he says.

My head snaps back up, and I meet his dark eyes. “Don’t say that,” I say. “You’re like my brother.”

He shakes his head again. “Zafiah, you must do as your mother told you to. It’s your duty, and I can’t help you rebel from her.”

I gape, shaking my head blindly. “I thought surely you would stay by me? You’re all I have left.”

I can see his eyes glistening as well, but he closes them tightly. When he looks up, he is uncaring and cold once more. “We must be modest, both men and women,” he says. “I can’t be your friend anymore.”

He walks away, and I stare after him, crying and in shock.

For hours I stand there, until it is dark and cold. Shivering, I finally decide to walk back to the sakina alone. Fires glitter everywhere, and I long to find one and let the flames burn these worries away.

Boys just older than I comb the streets, catcalling after me. “Where’s your hijab, pretty girl?” one shouts. “What are you out doing out here at night? Need someone to walk you back?”

I ignore them and walk faster, trembling now with fear as well as from the cold. Soon I’m running wildly towards home, where I see my father and mother out front, frantically examining the night.

My father is so anxious he sweeps me into a hug, burying my head into his suit. “Zafiah,” he says, and I sense his disappointment, relief, and love.

He carries me inside, and the next day when my mother brings the hijab to my room, I do not object.

~ ~ ~

I am pacing the floor of my room in my bridal gown, hand embroidered by my mother and I. She sits across the room, and I can see a hint of age through the wrinkles around her eyes and the gray undertones in her hair.

“Amal said he would be here,” I say, and my mother sighs in commiseration.

“Habibti, you have waited for him for hours now. The ceremony is in thirty minutes, and he is still not here. Perhaps you should put your veil back on and settle your nerves. I know I was nervous too.”

I shake my head, and I’m sure she can see the panic in my eyes. “But I don’t love him!” I say. “I don’t even know him.” The argument has lasted for weeks at this point, ever since I was engaged without my knowledge. “How am I supposed to start a life with someone I don’t know?”

“He will take care of you, my love,” my mother said. She says that as if it is all I need to worry about, but at the thought, the catcalls of children in the street haunt me, and I shudder.

Moments pass in silence, before I see her perfect façade break. “I used to love fire too,” my mother tells me.

Surprised, I look up. It’s been years since she nearly pulled me from the firepit, but somehow she hasn’t forgotten. She meets my eyes, and I see my discontentment mirrored in her own. “I’ll always love the way the flame dances, yet I will always fear what it can become when left unbridled.”

It is good advice, but I take it in a way she perhaps did not intend. For once in my life, I become resolved to do something about this fear of mine. I will never be scared again.

I look her in the eyes, and I finger my hijab. “Why must I wear this to my own wedding?” I ask her.

“It is tradition, Allah wants us to, and we are protecting ourselves from men,” she replies.

I meet her eyes and smile sadly. “We are only chaining ourselves.”

My father meets me outside my room, and I take his arm. Together we walk down to where my groom is standing. It is dusk, and the sun has set the world on fire. Reds and golds match the blazing firepits on every side, that light up the approaching night and shower me with fervor and excitement. I find myself trapped in the flickering ferocity, and I turn back to my groom.

I meet my father’s eyes and see my mother behind him. I mourn a moment the shame I will bring on my family, before I pull the hijab from my face and walk confidently away.