Kanza Hadad
Bored was the only word to describe this meeting. No, bored didn't cover half of my emotions.
As I sat in the Middle Eastern restaurant, hidden by a veil of dimly lit lanterns and engulfed by a culture that was overlooked by Americans, I stared in awe at the scenery around me, the portraits of history etched across the walls, the laughter and amusement of families and friends all around, and the comforting embrace at the tight-knit community that came from restaurants like these.
It felt like a home.
The restaurant was the only thing that kept me in my seat as my twenty-year old brother, Adnan and I listened to the voice of a potential suitor of mine, Dayyan Masharawi. Adnan and him engaged in idle chatter as we ate, talking about politics or social stigmas that surrounded American universities.
I, on the other hand, was sick of listening to it. My parents wanted me to give him a chance, to open my eyes and heart to a man who could one day become my husband, but that click, that sense of security ceased to exist.
Leaning my cheek against the palm of my hand, I dared a look at Dayyan, watching him visibly tense under my scrutinizing gaze. "So," I began. "If we got married, is there anything you'd have concerns about regarding my personal life?"
Dayyan wasn't an unattractive man. In fact, I'd been told that he was highly sought after by young Muslim and non-Muslim women. The man had a pair of dreamy eyes, a shade of pale green with specks of hazel outlining his pupils like the sun's rays expelling into the corners of his eyes, bright and playful, full of youth, full of mischief.
Those eyes only seemed to make me anxious. That's never a good sign, I thought to myself.
Through his gaze, I felt unease like he was portraying a persona, a false identity. I couldn't explain why or how my body reacted in caution, but I knew these instincts were signs from Allah. The rational part of my brain told me to give him a chance. Maybe I was paranoid after the events that caused the demise of my old love or maybe I was on edge from knowing that Tanwir was also in the restaurant.
Whatever my reasons were, I decided to be meticulous in my questions, to test his identity and know if he was being truthful.
When he still didn't answer, I raised a brow. "Well?" I prompted.
He shook his head, smiling widely at me with shimmering white teeth, a poster perfect smile across his pale, slightly blushing visage. "Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied with my thoughts," he said, voice low, fluid with a roughness that seemed gentle when he spoke softly. Dayyan brushed his brown hair away from his forehead, pushing the strands back into their slicked-back, wavy appearance. "I personally find every part of you to be extraordinary and full of life. I wouldn't change you."
I lifted my head, giving him a blank stare. "Really?"
Flashing me another smile, tilting his head a slight degree so that his smile seemed more luminous than the lanterns that dangled above us like shooting stars, a smile that demanded a wish from above. My guard only increased at the precise, careful movements of his hand, slow as he stroked the stubble on his chin.
What game is he playing at? What's with these picture perfect moves he's using?
"I don't believe that a woman should be tied down to a man and forget all their inhibitions," he stated, glancing at my brother briefly. Adnan nodded, appreciating the comment, but I knew his guard was up as well. Dayyan continued. "There are some men in our community that would hate the idea of you running a YouTube channel and being an influencer. I can guarantee that many would criticize your representation of Islam for their cultural beliefs, but I'm not them. I won't ever shame you for who you are."
Adnan pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the glare of the lights against his glasses. "So you really have no reservations about how you want a 'proper' wife to react?" he asked in a mocking tone.
"You both seem to think I will say something negative about Kanza and her choices. Truthfully, I find her consistent work on the internet in dispelling misconceptions about Muslims to be honorable. It takes a lot of effort to stand up for oneself," he said before leaning forward on his arms, gaze matching Adnan's intensity, a burning flare in his eyes, scorching the hazel specks in a forest of green. "As for your comments about a 'proper' wife, I think any man that uses such a statement is among the lowest of the low."
Dayyan's gaze quickly shifted to me, his confidence faltering as he searched for approval in my eyes. Though I could appreciate his response to my direct, forward questions that were more like an interrogation than a first "date," I frankly didn't care. My lips were pursued.
Muslims weren't the types to date around before marriage. A date in Western culture entitled to more than what Islam allowed.
To Muslims, marriage was a pure, special commitment one made to their spouse. When problems arise, the couple must do everything in their ability to weave the loose threads back into the knots of unity, to put their prides aside to balance the love between them.
Sure, divorce was an option, but it should never be the early action taken when life had unexpected turns. For that reason, choosing a spouse based on fundamentals that build a loving unit was desired. There was so much emphasis on love in America that people forgot that love did not guarantee a content married life.
Plenty of married couples loved each other and still went their separate ways. Plenty of married couples loved each other till their hearts bled and it still was not enough to save their families from falling apart.
Their love was like a wilted rose, painful to touch but breathtaking to look at. As time went on, the beauty of their unity faltered and fell, life draining out of the once vibrant, red petals that bore their strength proudly. As external pressure and internal aches ensued, the red dripped like blood on an open wound, nothing left to seal the pain away and memories engraved into the gaps their love left behind.
My lips quirked a sly smile as I rested my chin on my fist, elbow pressed down on the table and eyes holding his cocky gaze with a threatening flare. "Now, tell me," I drawled, "did you come prepared with every answer I'd like to hear?"
He scoffed. "Do you really think I'd tell you a bunch of lies?"
I laughed. "Oh, please. I don't think you're capable of telling me lies when your body movements explain everything."
At this, Adnan turned to me, incredulous that I could suspect such a thing with ease. I knew my brothers and their personalities better than I knew my own, and I knew Adnan saw through Dayyan's mask, saw past the flashing smiles and elated eyes and into the darkness he was harboring. He felt uneasy, and so did I.
His brows scrunched in confusion. "What?"
I shot Adnan a look to keep him quiet. "Look, kid-"
"I'm clearly not a kid anymore and neither are you," interrupted Dayyan.
Straightening, I smiled coyly. "How could I ever forget the little boy that found every excuse to attack me as a child?" I questioned too sweetly. "But that's not why I'm calling you out."
Dayyan chuckled deeply, seeing my sarcasm as a charm. "I never pegged you to be the petty type, Kanza. Come on, sweetheart, let's not dig up the past."
"Let's not use pet names while the mahram is present," Adnan coughed.
My eyes narrowed at Dayyan, seeing him brush off my accusation as a joke even though I could feel his knee shaking under the table. His bright green eyes reminded me of poison apples as if the magic from an evil queen wrapped around his fit form, a green smoke escaping his lips with every rehearsed line.
Some may call me crazy for being this forward towards a suitor, but I had impeccable profiling skills when it came to people with bad vibes. Dayyan had a reputation that shimmered under the sunlight, radiant in all his achievements and joyful in all his appearances. His smile brought women to their knees while his smoldering eyes hypnotized even the coldest people.
The Muslim community adored him, treated him like a prince without a crown, a man who had the influence to turn the bad boys into 'good boys.' He was a charmer, and people fell into his little trap of an Arab prince with drooling lips and blushing cheeks.
They were so distracted by his appearance that they couldn't see the shallow man inside. I'd met so many honorable men in my life.
Damon may not have been raised as the epitome of a perfect Muslim, but his devotion to his religion and to his wife was unmatched. Ibrahim may appear as a cold-hearted, astute businessman but he used his influence, money, and power to safeguard those in need like orphans or refugees. Both men didn't just believe in Islam, they expressed it in their interactions with others.
Then there was Tanwir.
He was many things, quiet, reserved, loving, and supportive. He noticed the little things and found a way to bring a smile to my face through his listening, through his presence. He reminded me of Islam when I thought I was falling apart.
None of these men actively sought to appeal to the Muslim community, and they didn't need to. People felt comfortable in their presence, saw the noor (light) written across their visages, and they could feel their iman (faith) increase by having a single conversation with any of these men.
They were good men that didn't boast about their deeds.
With Dayyan, I saw none of that. He had an outstanding pre-marital resume, but he lacked the love I desired, lacked the understanding I needed to consider him a spouse.
"This has nothing to do about the past," I stated firmly. "I'm sure you believe in everything you've just told me, no matter how rehearsed it sounds to me, but your eyes, your expressions, and your smiles tell me to look the other way."
"So, you're going to reject a perfect man because I sound rehearsed?" he asked, chuckling to himself. His fingers threaded through his brown locks, tugging loosely at them. "Kanza, that's a pretty unfair judgment. Perfect men do exist, and many would love to be your husband."
Adnan cleared his throat. "That's where you're missing her point, Dayyan. No one is perfect. We don't go around boasting about our perfection to others because we know that every person has flaws," he said softly. "Allah gave us these flaws to help us learn, to grow from our past and become better to ourselves and to our community. Being perfect isn't real."
His eyes darted back to me, disregarding Adnan's words as if he saw my brother as a decoration on the wall.
"Is there something wrong with me having the confidence to call myself perfect?" he asked me, voice carrying an edge like the unsheathing of a blade, subtle but dangerous. "Yes, we are imperfect people, but we are also perfect in our own ways. Sure, maybe I did sound rehearsed in my beliefs, but that is only because I'm confident in myself and what I stand for. I know my self-worth, and I'm proud of what I've accomplished. Is that wrong?"
I could see the sincerity in his eyes, branches of hazel overlapping the evergreen leaves as the storm cleared, his visage holding his tentative guise, a fettering look of a man too immersed in love to see the signs of rejection.
Cupid's arrows teased the curve of my back, toyed with the ambivalence that ran through me as his charming façade poked under my skin like a drug tempting to release me from societal pressures.
But I knew better than to trust appearances. After all, I made a living based on the guise I wore in front of the camera.
His gaze was gentle, and I felt my heart thump against my chest, drumming to the intensity of his gaze, the desire, the need to be married to me. For a brief moment I wondered if I was wrong.
There was nothing wrong in being confident in one's self, in fact I wish I was. Could I be projecting my demons to him?
Confidence wasn't a bad trait. As he held my gaze, his lips curved into a slight smile, his picture perfect smile peeking through, the reflection of a magazine model. I felt my brother grab my hand from under the table.
And the spell broke. I blinked till my vision was clear of the forbidden haze. Astaghfirullah (May God forgive). How could I be so stupid to fall into his trap?
From the affectionate look in his eyes, I could sense a twinge of madness, the type that came when the love potions and the charms failed to lure a victim. The arrow that strived to strike me broke into pieces, and I was no longer induced into a lovesick teenager, desperate for the compliments of a handsome man.
He was perfect eye candy, a perfect brag.
But when Adnan's hand touched mine, I remembered my own self-worth, my own stubborn personality crawling among the ashes of his tricks. I deserved better than a man who was a poster child.
My eyes glanced at the table that Tanwir was at, watching his head fall back in rumbling laughter along with his friends. The men managed to ignore their surroundings, joking and teasing each other as others watched in awe, lost in their effortless grace and elegance, wishing they would be a part of a friendship so strong that the sharpest blade could not break them apart.
Their brotherhood was deep, a different love story, one that didn't end in a passionate kiss. The ability to value friendships and people in general gave those men the strength to love each other. And that strength gave them the ardor to love their wives and families, something I didn't feel with Dayyan.
Squeezing Adnan's hand, I brought my gaze back to Dayyan, the decision set. "Maybe you'll be the perfect man to a very lucky woman," I smiled. "But that woman isn't me. I'm sorry."
I released my brother's hand, feeling his beaming smile as we both stood up to leave, our work done. A very stunned Dayyan lost his glowing confidence and bright grin, and instead he was left frowning and confused, trying to wrap his head around the turn of events.
No woman rejected him before. He rejected them, and it hurt to be on the other end.
"Wait," he said, following us. "You can't be serious."
Adnan shrugged. "Sorry, bro. It's a definite 'no' this time."
"No, that can't be," he rejected the idea, shaking his head. "Kanza, please. Do you want to talk about all this again? I'll try not to sound so rehearsed. What will make you agree to being my wife?"
Adnan rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut.
I sighed. "Dayyan, I really can't see you as my husband. Please, try to understand."
Take a hint, already.
His eyes were wild with fear. "Kanza-"
Desperate times call for desperate measures. "Oh, sorry, I think my father is calling me," I said, glancing at my phone. "It's late, and Adnan needs to be heading back soon. In Shaa Allah (if God wills it) we'll see each other around."
Without another word, I pushed a laughing Adnan out the restaurant, trying my best to keep my own laughter at bay at my terrible yet effective excuse. The father's phone call never failed.
"The poor man was just about to pour his heart out to you," smirked Adnan when we were in the parking lot. "You should have let him say his goodbyes."
I smacked him upside the head.
"Ouch!" he exclaimed, rubbing the spot as he adjusted his glasses. "Do you have to be so violent? These are new and expensive frames."
"Darn, I should have broken them in the restaurant then."
"Oh, so you're going to buy me a replacement?"
I shook my head, a mocking smirk playing on my lips. "If you work for me, that could be your salary."
"I hate you."
As we approached my car, I fumbled around the inside of my purse, looking for my keys until my fingers grabbed hold of them. Pressing the 'unlock' button, I heard the loud click. Before I could move, I felt my brother grab my arm.
I gave him a bored expression. "Really, dude? Are you going to tell me some cheesy line like how you miss me?"
"No, shut up," he brushed off, eyes looking back at the restaurant. "Are you sure you feel safe going home by yourself?"
"I have pepper spray and live in a very nice neighborhood," I answered, pretending to think. "Given the odds, I think I'm fine."
"But-"
"Adnan, I'm okay," I assured him. "Here, I'll call you when I get home. If anyone should be worried here it's me. Drive safely, okay?"
He nodded. "I will."
Giving me one last hug, I watched him leave in his own car. His retreating form pulled on my heartstrings as images of a baby Adnan came into mind, the kid brother that could barely walk without grabbing my legs, the little boy who spent hours reading inside his room instead of rough housing with the rest of our siblings.
We fought the most when we were kids, but we were also closer. He was my best friend before I knew what friends were, and I was his partner in crime before he knew what trouble was. Now as I watched the sunset behind him outlining his silhouette in hues of a glowing coral, I could have never been prouder of the man he'd become.
May Allah always keep you safe, Adnan. Ameen.
* * * *
Quickly driving home, I prayed Maghrib (sunset prayer). While I was lost in a trance of nostalgia, I almost forgot about time ticking away from me. There was no excuse to miss a prayer, and I needed my prayer like I needed oxygen to breathe. The small act of worship became a part of who I was.
Many people overlooked the value and importance of salah (prayer). Some non-Muslims found the five daily prayers as redundant and mundane, lacking its sincerity but the reality was the exact opposite.
To Muslims, their daily prayers were a way for them to release themselves of worldly problems and spend a few minutes to focus on their spirituality, to reflect, and to enjoy the loving embrace that came with whispering verses.
The world around us had chaos tainting the white veils of purity with an inky streak wherever it went, and the screams of agony that hid within our souls manifested in greed and a pursuit of power like predators seeking helpless prey. The world revolved around a power dynamic, and it was comforting to come back to a single constant in one's life, a familiar sense of home.
Home was in prayer. Home was with Allah.
Pulling my prayer mat off the floor, I folded it neatly and placed it on a nearby stool where my other ones were stacked. Every Muslim household had that one place where all their prayer mats were of different textures, colors, and designs. At this point, they were a collection.
Knock Knock.
My head turned to the door. I wasn't expecting anyone. If anything, I was planning to clean my apartment a bit, maybe film a video, and then use my leisure time. Guests were not on the list. Hell, I didn't have food in the house to feed guests.
The knocking insisted, louder this time.
"Coming!" I shouted, rewrapping my hijab around my head. "Man, a little patience goes a long way."
Looking through the peephole, I saw Dayyan standing there with a hand in his trouser pockets and another hand scratching the back of his neck, nervously glancing at my door. His clothes were wrinkled, eyes weary but still holding the same spell-binding awe in them.
Did this guy just radiate Prince Charming vibes? What the hell is this?
"Assalamualaikum, Kanza," he softly said, walking closer to the door. "I brought your earbuds. You dropped them on your way out, and it didn't feel right to not return them."
"So you decided to come to my apartment," I finished for him, my hand tightening on the lock. "How'd you find my address?"
"Can you please open the door? I have an errand to run, and I'd rather not spend my precious time with you by arguing through a door."
I rolled my eyes. "Alright, lover boy. Give me a second."
Once the door was unlocked, I opened it slightly, keeping most of my body behind the door with only my head poking out. Outstretching a hand, I gave him a blank, bored expression. When he still didn't give me my earbuds, my frown only deepened.
"Any day now..." I trailed off, still holding my hand out.
He broke out of his trance, smiling. "Sorry," he apologized before placing them in my hand. "You just look so beautiful MashAllah (God has willed it) that I must have lost my thoughts when staring at you."
"For a self-proclaimed religious man, you sure don't know how to lower your gaze."
He chuckled. "You only look once, right?"
"My answer is still no," I replied curtly as I moved to close the door. "Thanks for bringing me my earbuds, but you need to leave and I am a very busy woman."
His foot stepped in between, halting the door and making me stumble. His arm snuck in, forcing his way in as my grip fell from the handle from his brute strength. His lips curled into a cocky smirk again, green eyes an embodiment of evil as they became hooded, lashes lowered. With brown hair falling over his eyes, he gazed down at my lips, pupils dilating.
No. This wasn't happening.
"Hold it, sweetheart," he whispered, towering over me as his hand pressed against the wall behind me.
This time, there wasn't a third party to keep him at bay.
Assalamualaikum!
Y'all tell me why mosquitoes always bite me the most instead of my family WHO WILLINGLY GO OUTSIDE. I'm telling you, when a mosquito bites your foot multiple times, good luck walking, mate.
Anyway, who's mad at me for ending the chapter there? Don't be shy.
I'd like to clarify to people who say, "Why doesn't she fight back?" or "Why is she stupid?" Kanza didn't put herself in this situation. He forced his way in. Do you people know how strong some people are? That's out of her control, so please do not blame the victim.
There are some people who will be charming, attractive, and very manipulative even in the Muslim community. Muslims are people too, and there are good and bad ones. Remember that for the next chapter.
Don't forget to vote, comment, and follow!