UM BURAQ

HERE IN THE Cube, I contemplate every decision I made. Turning to Um Buraq stands out as pivotal in altering the course of my life.

“Well, well. What a nice surprise, and great timing,” Um Buraq said. She was going to a party with friends that evening, and she’d love it if I could come. I said I’d like to but couldn’t. “My family wouldn’t believe a wedding could go on that late,” I said.

“Don’t worry. You’ll stay with me. All my girls do,” Um Buraq said. Had I been more sophisticated, less naïve—had I been smart, prudent, more like Sabah—I might have wondered what she meant by “all my girls.”

I asked what I should wear. “Something sexy,” she said.

“Is it a mixed party?” I asked.

She chuckled. “Yes, it’s mixed.”

I assumed it would be mostly couples, since that was the only kind of late-night mixed party I had ever been to.

“I’m not comfortable being at parties with couples,” I said. “Will there be other single people?”

Then came her enormous laugh. Even through the phone, it was shocking. I imagined the big teeth, the wide gap, the fat lips. She realized I was starting to back out and immediately said, “You have nothing to worry about. I’m going without a husband, aren’t I?”

“I’m glad you’re making new friends and moving on with your life,” Mama said. But Sitti Wasfiyeh warned, “People are going to talk. Someone in your position shouldn’t be staying outside of the home.”

“Leave her alone,” my mother said. “All she does is work. At the salon, at the school. Sabah is her only friend. She needs to live her life.” I still hear Mama’s words in my head.

Jehad was on his way out to play football when Um Buraq’s driver beeped the horn under our balcony. He and I descended the stairs together, and he glimpsed Um Buraq, who was dressed in a traditional black abaya in the passenger seat. “You’re hanging out with old Kuwaiti women now?” he teased, and went on his way as I walked to her car. I was surprised to see two other women in the backseat when I got in. We exchanged greetings, and Um Buraq introduced us. Their names were “Susu” and “Fifi.” I could tell from their accents that Susu was Lebanese and Fifi was Egyptian. They were my age and quite beautiful.

“We have to find a good name for you too,” Um Buraq said.

“What do you mean?”

At a traffic light, she turned to me. “Pick a name other than Yaqoot,” she said.

“Almas,” I blurted out spontaneously. Diamond. I have thought much about that decision to choose another name. Was I making a commitment to something? To a rebellion, perhaps. A rejection of the script to achieve a respectable life—modesty, a husband, children, social status, money? Was I wanting to try life on the margins of all that was unnaturally proper? And if so, why? Was it the excitement? A desire for relevance? Attention? Unfettered sexuality? Or maybe something less interesting. I had already been rejected and abandoned by my husband before I was twenty. I hadn’t even had a proper wedding, which only cheapened me in the eyes of others and intensified their scorn. Maybe I turned to Um Buraq because I thought she could understand the shock and heartache of my fall from grace.