Santa Claus in Baghdad and Other Stories about Teens in the Arab World

7. Honor: A story from Jordan: Whose honor is at stake when a girl breaks the rules?

7 Honor A STORY FROM JORDAN Yasmine speaks . . . I was not exactly thrilled when the biology teacher teamed me up with Wafa Ar-Rahman. We’d be working in pairs, she said, when we started cutting things up—a learning experience I really did not look forward to one bit. And now I had to do it with Wafa. Not that she was obnoxious or stupid, but she was new in school, and so conservative and quiet and shy that she really sort of stuck out. When I got home, I told my mother that my biology partner would be this girl Wafa, whom I could hardly even see, she was so covered up by her hijab. “She wears her head scarf over her eyebrows , and she doesn’t say a thing. She’ll be so boring, Mum,” I moaned. “I’ll hate that class.” But my mother was the wrong person to complain to. She was a hard-hitting investigative journalist, and she saw opportunities for social change and noble struggle in practically everything. She was so good at her job, in fact, that she’d won a special fellowship to study in London the previous year, and we’d all spent six glorious months there. “My goodness,” Mum said. “A girl from Beit es-Souf in the Yasmine speaks . . . SANTA CLAUS IN BAGHDAD AND OTHER STORIES 132 glittering capital of the Royal Kingdom of Jordan! I don’t wonder she’s awed. How long has her family been here?” “I think a couple of years,” I said. “Her father’s a manager in a food-processing company. Seems to me some of her country ways should’ve worn off by now.” Beit es-Souf was notorious for its ultra -conservative, super-religious people, and for a girl like that to go to a progressive place like the Ayesha Modern School for Girls was really strange. At that point I knew exactly what my mother would say next, down to the commas and semicolons. “You have no idea what her home life is like, dearie. She probably needs friends. You’re very fortunate to have the chance to build bridges and gradually help her adapt, gain some self-confidence, independent thinking, and . . .” I stopped listening. Both of my parents were very democratic. Mum just loved getting lathered up about social causes, and Baba’s import-export business gave him a more or less worldly view of things. Justice, Freedom, Democracy! Equal rights for everybody! So I knew my duty. I would be civil and nice to Wafa, if it bored me half to death. Wafa speaks . . . I don’t think Yasmine Fadlallah was very happy to be assigned to work with me in our science class. All the girls liked her . . . I think anyone would have been very glad to have her as a partner. But the teacher wanted us to work together, I don’t know why. I resolved to be quiet and try my best, and not be a bother to her, even if we had to touch dead things. Mama was waiting for me when I got home from school. She was always so eager to hear about what had happened at the start of a new term. I’d hardly had time to take off my coat and wet HONOR 133 shoes—a slushy snow had fallen—before she started asking questions . It was my first term at this school, a very good school, which girls from good families attended, and it cost a lot more than my father liked paying. But he and Mama hadn’t been pleased with the one I first went to after we moved to Amman, and he thought having a daughter at the Ayesha Modern School for Girls would help his reputation in the business world. I hoped they’d think it was worth the trouble and expense. “Tell me about your classes, dear,” said Mama as she poured me a cup of tea. “You’re taking English and French? What is the science class like—what will you be doing there? Nothing that goes against the Koran, I hope, or Uncle Nabeel will be very unhappy.” We both laughed at that. Uncle Nabeel, who lived with us, had very simple ideas about the world, for an army officer, and he stuck to whatever the Koran said on almost any subject. If the Koran said the world...