Laila Lalami - Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits

“God’s commandments are true for all time,” Noura replied, her brow furrowed. “And in some ways, we’re still living in jahiliya.” Larbi and Salma glanced at each other. Noura drew her breath again. “Women are harassed on the streets in Rabat all the time. The hijab is a protection.”

Salma opened her mouth to respond, but no sound emerged. Larbi knew that his wife was thinking of those young men with hungry eyes, of how they whistled when they saw a pretty girl and how they never teased the ones with headscarves. “So what?” Larbi said, his voice already loud. He stood up. “The men can’t behave, so now my daughter has to cover herself? They’re supposed to avert their eyes. That’s in the Qur’an, too, you know.”

“I don’t understand why it’s a problem,” Noura said. “This is between me and God.” She got up as well, and they stared at each other across the table. At last Noura left the dining room.

Larbi was in shock. His only daughter, dressed like some ignorant peasant! But even peasants didn’t dress like that. She wasn’t talking about wearing some traditional country outfit. No, she wanted the accoutrements of the new breed of Muslim Brothers: headscarf tightly folded around her face, severe expression anchored in her eyes. His precious daughter. She would look like those rabble-rousers you see on live news channels, eyes darting, mouths agape, fists raised. But, he tried to tell himself, maybe this was just a fleeting interest, maybe it would all go away. After all, Noura had had other infatuations. She had been a rabid antismoking advocate. She’d thrown his cigarettes away when he wasn’t looking, cut pictures of lungs dark with tar out of books and taped them to the refrigerator. Eventually she gave up and let him be. She’d also had a string of hobbies that she took up with astonishing passion and then abandoned a few months later for no apparent reason — jewelry making, box collecting, the flute, sign language. But what if this was different? What if he lost her to this … this blindness that she thought was sight?

He thought about the day, a long time ago now, when he’d almost lost her. She was only two. They had gone to the beach in Temara for the day, and Nadir had asked for ice cream. Larbi had called out to one of the vendors who walked back and forth on the beach. He’d paid for the cones and handed one to Salma and one to Nadir, but when he’d turned around to give Noura hers, he realized she’d vanished. They’d looked for her for hours. He remembered his face burning in the sun, the vein at the base of his neck throbbing with fear and worry, his feet swelling from walking on the sand. He remembered the tears that continued to stream down Salma’s face as they searched the beach. Eventually an old woman brought the disoriented toddler to the police station. Noura had gone to collect seashells, and it took the old woman a while to realize that the girl who had sat quietly on the rocks was alone.

He’d promised himself then never to lose sight of her, but the terror he felt that day came rushing in, and the weight of it made him sit down in his chair, his head in his hands.

Moments later, Larbi heard Noura’s footsteps in the corridor. He could see her in front of the mirror, her freckled face turned to the light coming from the living room, placing a scarf on her head, tying it under her chin so that her hair was fully covered. Before he could think about what he was doing, he lunged at her and took off the scarf. Noura let out a cry. Salma stood up at the dining table but didn’t come to her daughter’s rescue.

“What are you doing?” Noura cried.

“You’re not going out like that.” Larbi threw the scarf on the floor.

“You can’t stop me!”

Larbi didn’t say anything. He knew that she was right, of course, that he couldn’t keep her under lock and key just because she wanted to dress like half the city’s female population. Noura picked up her scarf and quietly resumed tying it on her head. She said her good-byes and left. Larbi turned to look at his wife, whose face displayed the same stunned expression as when Noura had first spoken.

ON THE FIRST NIGHT of Ramadan, Salma took out her best china and set the table herself. She had sent the maid home to celebrate with her own family. One by one, she brought forth the dishes they had prepared that day: harira soup with lamb, beghrir smothered with honey, sesame shebbakiya, dates stuffed with marzipan, and a tray of assorted nuts. Larbi called out to Noura that it was time to eat, then sat down to await the adhan of the muezzin, the moment when day became dusk, the fast would end, and they could eat. At last, Noura poked her head in and stood listlessly at the entrance of the dining room. Larbi looked at her beautiful hair, its loose curls reaching her chest. It was a reminder of what she had chosen to do.

The TV announcer came on to say that the sun was setting; the call for prayer resonated immediately after. Salma gestured to Noura. “Sit, so we can eat.”

“I’ll only break the fast with water. I’ll eat after I’ve done the maghrib prayer.”

Salma glanced at Larbi. “Fine,” he said.

Noura added, “We’re supposed to have frugal meals during Ramadan, not this orgy of food.” She pointed to the festive table her mother had prepared.

Larbi felt his appetite melt away. Instead, he craved a cigarette and a stiff drink. Preferably Scotch. Of course, there wasn’t a place in the city that would sell alcohol for another twenty-nine days. He swallowed with difficulty. It was going to be a long Ramadan. “We’ll wait for you,” he said.

Noura turned to leave, but then turned back. “Well, maybe just a little bit of shebbakiya,” she said. She took a healthy bite out of the candy.

“Didn’t you say this was too much food?” Salma asked.

The family ate without talking. In years past, this first night had been special; friends and family would sit around the table, sharing stories of their fast and enjoying their meal, but there had been too much on Larbi’s mind lately to think about inviting anyone.

IT WAS YET another drought year — the end of November and no rainfall at all. Looking at his desk calendar, Larbi noticed that the NYU application deadline was approaching. At least he had Noura’s future to look forward to, he thought, even if the present was difficult. Since she had taken on the hijab, he had stopped mentioning her at work. He felt it was beneath someone like him to have a daughter in a headscarf, and he provided only terse answers to anyone at the Ministry who asked him about his daughter.

After work he found her in her room with her mother, busy hanging new curtains. He asked her if he could read her essay before she sent it out.

“I’m not applying,” she replied. She slid the last curtain tab onto a mahogany pole.

Larbi glared at her. “Why not?”

“Because I want to transfer out of university at the end of next year. I’m going to be a middle school teacher.”

“What happened to your plans to study economics?” Salma asked, sitting down.

“Morocco needs me. You two always talk about the shortage of teachers,” Noura said.

“Have you lost your mind? You’re not going to solve the shortage problem—”

“Am I crazy to want to help my country?” She turned away and climbed onto her desk to place the pole on the brackets.

“Look, you’ll be of more help as an economist than as a schoolteacher,” Larbi said. “It’s that friend of hers,” he added, turning to his wife. “She’s filled her head with these ideas and now she can’t think for herself.”

“No one is filling my head,” Noura said, standing next to the window, the late afternoon light in her hair. “There’s too much corruption in the system now, and I want to be a part of the solution.” Larbi wondered if she was referring to him. No, that was impossible. He had always kept his deals secret from his wife and daughter. Still, he thought it best not to respond. Noura jumped down from the desk. “Besides, why go to school in the States when I can just as easily study here?”