In addition to the supposed loan of five thousand dinars, I revealed a ten-thousand-dinar savings account. I named a random company at the top of the stock exchange, which I had read about in the newspaper. “I bought stock in it two years ago and it tripled my investment,” I said.

Jehad picked me up and twirled me around. Sitti Wasfiyeh pulled me to her and kissed my face. But Mama reacted differently. “Who gave you a stock tip?” she asked.

“Um Buraq.” It was the first name that came to mind. Mama seemed to relax.

“I can’t figure out if that woman is a devil or an angel,” Mama said.

“Who cares? Jehad is going to university!” I said, wrapping my arms around her.

Mama kissed me, tears welling in her eyes. “My darling daughter. You have done so much for this family.”

The past year of working two jobs—three, if you count freelance eyebrow-threading and dancing at clandestine weekend parties—was worth it to see my family so happy. Mama was also relieved that she didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of asking her brothers for money, as she had had to do in the years before I was able to pitch in.

Jehad decided to do his language prerequisites in Amman, instead of Moscow, to save money. He set off in mid-July for a summer course that began in August. The money I had was still not enough to support us, plus all four years of Jehad’s university, so I continued to dance at parties, determined my brother would become a surgeon, the first ever in our family. As I say this, I know it wasn’t my only motivation. It’s true that I lived my own dreams through him to some extent. But I liked dancing at these illicit parties. There was something alluring about living on the margins, in secret disrepute. It freed me from the drudgery of respectability—the low-paying jobs, social pretenses, children. I could have some autonomy without a husband. I could be my family’s breadwinner, the powerful woman who took care of others. And all I had to do was what I loved most of all: dance.

On the night of August 2, 1990, Um Buraq sent three of us to a party at a beach chalet where high-ranking Saudi military officers were visiting. We arrived after midnight to find a gathering of eleven men, most already drunk. I had a bad feeling immediately. The chalet was secluded. Armed guards greeted us at the door, perhaps a normal thing for important military men, I reasoned. The host, an intimidating man, was irritated to see only three of us and complained that he had requested “at least fifteen girls.”

“Yes, I know. I heard you tell her to spare no expense at all. You are her most generous customer.” I flattered loud enough for all his guests to hear. This pleased him, and his guests chimed in about his hospitality.

Um Buraq was always clear that I was there only to dance, and the hosts honored her conditions. It was rare that Um Buraq did not accompany us, but this time she was home ill, and her absence may have emboldened the men to be more aggressive. It seemed our host had also lied to Um Buraq about how many men would be there. She would not have sent us had she known. The girls and I exchanged quick glances and surveyed the room for bathrooms, windows, doors. But it was no use. With sober guards outside, there was no way to leave.