The Butterfly Mosque by G. Willow Wilson Read Free Book Online

experiences being ogled and propositioned in Cairo confirmed it. All that kept me from articulating this was a thin veneer of liberal education, and even that provided no counterargument—only the tepid belief that it was bad manners to generalize.
    â€œYou’re not going to tell him?” asked Jo.
    â€œIf he doesn’t feel the same way, we would probably have to stop seeing each other. That seems like the kind of noble thing he would insist on. Anyway, there would be too many cultural barriers.” I watched her, hoping this politically correct hint would save me from having to be explicit. “Right?”
    Jo smiled. “Of course there would be barriers. But Omar’s not just some guy off the street. He’s smart and sensitive and he’s awfully attached to you.”
    â€œUgh.” I slumped back down on the counter, feeling guilty. “You’re right. I’m being an idiot.” It disturbed me that I couldn’t unlump Omar from the faceless mass of Middle Eastern men I had been taught to fear. In the back of my mind was a lesson I’d learned watching the movie
Not Without My Daughter
and reading horror stories in women’s magazines: they always
seem
like nice guys. It’s only after you’ve gotten involved that you discover the honor-killing wife-imprisoning fundamentalist reality beneath the facade. Were there layers of Omar’s personality I couldn’t see? The possibility made me hesitant.
    â€œI’m very comfortable,” I said to Jo, holding out my hand for a slice of mango. “That’s the problem. I’m very comfortable not dealing with this. Denial is a river in Egypt. I’m so there. I can see it out the window.”
    Jo laughed. Unconsciously, I had diagnosed myself: I
was
very comfortable. I liked having the luxury to avoid messy cross-cultural entanglements. I liked being a non-Muslim so much that I kept my new religion a secret and prayed alone behind a locked door. Even the person I most wanted to tell, the person I couldn’t stop thinking about, knew nothing about my conversion. To the rest of the world, I was an upper-middle-class American white girl with bland politics and polite beliefs, and in this coveted social stratum I was happy. The status quo had been good to me. I was reluctant to abandon it—even for love, even for God.

Road Nine at Twilight
    I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,
    I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
    I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
    â€”Walt Whitman, “To a Stranger”
    W E FOUND EXCUSES TO SPEND TIME TOGETHER . A LL ER -rands, great and small, required each other’s company: on this we silently agreed. I turned down invitations to dinners and parties at expat watering holes in order to go with Omar to souks, tailors, or gritty outdoor cafés where I was the only westerner. I began to anticipate his phone calls in the hours after school, when Jo and I made little meals of bread and olives and stood on our balcony to watch the hazy landscape. At night, Jo often went out with our coworkers; I did nothing that did not include Omar.
    One evening he called, sounding depressed.
    â€œI have to see the dentist,” he said, “there’s no use putting it off. I wanted to call to say good night first since I won’t see you until tomorrow.”
    â€œYou don’t like going to the dentist?” I asked with mock surprise.
    â€œI hate it. I’m afraid of him, to tell the truth.” He laughed at himself.
    â€œWould it help to have company? I’ll come if you want.”
    â€œYou
would?
” This was a step beyond our cheerful codependence.
    â€œSure.”
    He arrived at the apartment half an hour later.
    â€œYou don’t have to do this, you know,” he said. “I don’t want you to get bored.”
    â€œDon’t be silly.” I pulled a