Rebels by Accident (8 page)

We wait for Sittu in front of her building. She lives in the suburbs of Cairo, but there are no houses I can see, only apartment buildings. It looks more like a city block, but it's even quieter than my boring street back home. I thought Cairo would be jam-packed, but the only other people around are a woman hanging clothes on a third-floor balcony and two older men sitting in chairs in front of what looks like a barber shop.

“There aren't many people out,” I say.

“It's still early,” Sittu says, coming up behind us. “It's only eight in the morning.”

“In New York, that's rush hour,” Deanna says.

“Did you get all your work done?” I say.

“Work?” Sittu says. “I've been retired for a long while.”

“I mean on the computer. You looked the way Baba does when he's meeting a deadline for his job.”

“Yes, your father was always very serious when it came to his studies. I was just keeping up with the news.”

“I hope it was good news,” I say.

“
Insh'allah
, it will be,” Sittu says.

“
Alhamdulillah
!
” Deanna shouts.

Sittu looks at Deanna. “You know
alhamdulillah
?” She smiles.

“Mariam.” Deanna turns to me. “Baba taught us, remember?”

Sittu and Deanna stare at me for an answer, but I can't remember. Besides, what's this “Baba taught us” business? What happened to “your
baba
” or “your father” or “your dad”? First, Deanna takes Sittu, and now she wants Baba too?

Sittu turns toward Deanna. “So, Deanna?”

“It means ‘praise to God,' but it's what people say when they are thankful for something.”

“
Alhamdulillah
!
” Sittu hugs Deanna. “Mariam, you should have Deanna give you a few lessons in Arabic.” Sittu smiles when she says this, but I'm starting to wonder if she'd rather have Deanna than me as her granddaughter.

“Me? Teach Mariam? She's, like, the smartest kid in school,” Deanna says. It's nice that she's trying to make me look like less of an idiot in front of Sittu, but if she'd stop showing off, she wouldn't need to.

“Our ride should be here shortly,” Sittu says.

“Salam?” Deanna asks.

“He's off today.”

“But Salam is your regular driver?” Deanna asks.

“Well, I let Salam use my car in exchange for driving me places. My eyesight is not what it used to be. I don't feel so comfortable driving anymore.”

“You used to drive?” I ask.

“This is shocking to you?”

“No, I just thought women couldn't drive in the Middle East.”

“That's in Saudi Arabia,” Deanna says.

“Deanna, you can't blame Mariam for what she hasn't been taught,” Sittu says. “There is nothing Islamic about forbidding women to drive or hiding them from the world. But we have our struggles here too, like you do in the States.” She looks at me when she says this. “In this world, there's a lot of repression in the name of Islam or Christianity or Judaism. Patriarchy will do all in its power to oppress women.”

“Sittu, you sound like a feminist,” Deanna laughs.

“Is that what I sound like?” She seems offended.

“Sittu's Muslim, Deanna,” I say. “She can't be a feminist.”

“I didn't mean to show any disrespect,” Deanna apologizes.

“My dear”—Sittu takes Deanna's hand in hers—“you haven't offended me at all, but, Mariam…”

But, Mariam? Is she kidding me? What did I say now?

“Feminism and Islam are not like oil and water; they are like the trees and the air.” She gestures toward the sky. “One can't exist without the other. Islam is about equality and justice, so I can't see how you can be a good Muslim without being a feminist.” She laughs a little. “Mariam, do you know you come from a long line of radical feminists?” Sittu looks at Deanna and smiles. “Have you ever heard of Huda Shaarawi?”

Deanna and I both shake our heads.

“Back in the twenties—that was even before I was born”— Sittu smiles. I don't smile back. It doesn't seem as though she is really even talking to me—“Huda Shaarawi was president of the Egyptian Feminist Union, and after she came back from an international meeting in Rome, she took off her veil and threw it into the sea.”

“Was that like burning your bra?” Deanna asks.

Sittu laughs, and it's actually nice to hear, even if I'm not the one who made it happen. “In some ways, yes, it was just like that.”

“It's just,” I say, “that on the news, Muslim women here are always all covered up and…you know, have no rights…”

“I'm curious, Mariam,” Sittu says, “what is it about me that is different from these other women whom you see on television?”

“You're independent and confident and strong.”

“The woman at the airport who almost got arrested—she was wearing the whole deal,” Deanna says, “and she sure had guts.”

“Something happened at the airport?” Sittu asks nervously.

Deanna recounts the story.

“Ahmed said it could have been just about anything that got the man taken away,” I add.

“Who's Ahmed?” Sittu asks.

“A man we met on the plane.”

“So you talk to strange men on planes?”

“No. I mean, yes,” I say. “But he helped us through customs.”

“Girls, it upsets me so much that all the conversations about Muslim women are always focused on what we wear and don't wear, and here I am guilty of doing the same. What's important is that you understand no one should be forced to wear anything against her will. But don't make the mistake I did”—did Sittu just say she made a mistake?—“and assume you know a person because of how she looks on the outside.” Sittu brushes the back of her hand against Deanna's right cheek. “Many great women struggle against oppression of all kinds, some wearing a burka, while others wear jeans and T-shirts.”

Now Sittu touches my cheek. “
Habibti
, you're warm. Are you feeling okay?”

“I'm okay.”

“Our ride, finally.” Sittu drops her hand and points to the street.

I squint at a blue Herbie the Love Bug pulling up in front of the building.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Sittu pulls a pair of sunglasses even cooler than Deanna's out of her monster bag.

“These are for you.”

“Really?
Shukran
,” I say.

“I told you—no thanking family.” Sittu smiles at me—just me. It makes me almost look forward to seeing the pyramids and maybe even spending time with Sittu.

“Mariam.” Deanna pinches my elbow. “Do you see who it is?” she whispers through her teeth.

I put on the sunglasses so I can get a better look at our driver, then I take them off to make sure it's not some mirage. There is Hassan.

“
Sabah
al-khair
!
” Hassan calls to us from the street. He sounds so happy. His voice is sweet. We walk over to him.

“Madam,” he says to Sittu, “did you see on Facebook? The call for people to gather?”

“Not today, Hassan.”

“Call? Gather?” I ask. “For what?”

“Tunisia has inspired the nation,” Hassan answers. “People are calling for all to protest the repression and poverty and corrupt—”

“Not now.” Sittu raises her voice. “Tomorrow we fight for Egypt, but today we celebrate my granddaughters' trip to their homeland.” Sittu puts her arms around Deanna and me, squeezing us close to her.

“Fight?” I ask.

“Well, a figure of speech,” Sittu says. “
Yalla
, Hassan, the door.”

“Of course, madam. Please excuse me,” Hassan says. “My ladies, your chariot awaits.” He opens the back passenger door of his car.

“Out of any other mouth, that would've sounded dorky,” Deanna whispers. “But from his…” She shakes her shoulders. “Shivers right up my spine.”

She's got it bad. Sure, he's cute; that one dimple makes him look absolutely adorable. But I don't trust him. Baba was clear we should be careful about guys using us because we're American. I can't believe Deanna is falling so fast. Deanna's supposed to be the smart one when it comes to life stuff.

Sittu whispers back, “I see someone is crushing on someone here.”

Deanna's so focused on Hassan I don't think she even heard Sittu. “Sittu? Crushing?” I say.

“I may be old, but I'm not outdated.”

“
Sabah
al-khair
,” Deanna says, bending her head as she gets into the backseat. I bend to get in too, but Sittu pulls me back.

“
Habibti
,” she says, “I don't like the front seat unless I'm driving. You sit up front with Hassan.”

“Really?” I can't believe I finally get to sit up front. My mom still makes me sit in the back because she thinks it is safer. Deanna sticks her head out the door. “I don't mind sitting up front.”

“That's kind of you,” Sittu says. “But you can keep me company in back.”

“I just know Mariam's parents don't like for her to sit in front,” Deanna says.

Wait a second! Best friends aren't supposed to sell you out for the front seat, even if they are crushing on the driver.

“Well, Deanna, I'm in charge here. Mariam,
yalla
.”

“Sure,” I say, with a long look at Sittu. I wonder what she's up to. Maybe she'd rather sit in the back with Deanna, who knows so much more about everything.

“After you.” Hassan opens the door for me.

“
Shukran
,” I say.

“
Afwan
,” he says as he closes it behind me.

When he gets into the car, the top of his head almost touches the ceiling.

“Ready?” Hassan asks.

“Ready,” I say.

“Ready,” Sittu says.

Deanna doesn't say anything. But I don't have to be in her head to know exactly what she's thinking. She wishes she were in my seat with nothing but the stick shift between her and Hassan. This is probably the first time in my life anyone has ever wanted to trade places with me. It feels good.

Hassan shifts the car into gear and his hand brushes against my thigh. I understand what Deanna meant when she talked about shivers going up her spine. I wonder if he did that on purpose. I look down at his hand. No. There's no way he would like me over Deanna.

“Do you drive?” He catches me looking at his hand.

“No.” I move my leg away.

“I'll teach you how to drive then.” Hassan looks into his side mirror and changes lanes.

Deanna leans into the front seat. “I'd love to learn too.”

“No driving lessons today.” Sittu pulls Deanna back into her seat.

Even with the heat blasting, I can hear Deanna sigh.

“Music okay?” Hassan looks into his rearview mirror.

“Of course,” Sittu says.

“Wonderful,” Deanna says.

“Mariam?” He looks at me.

“Umm Kulthum?” I say, not in the mood for classic Egyptian.

“You know Umm Kulthum?”

“A little,” I say.

“Well, she's wonderful. But do you mind if I play something else?”

“Play whatever you want,” I say.

Hassan slides a CD into the player.

“No cassette?”

“Egypt may not be as modern as America, but we have a few of the new inventions.” He hits the play button. “The quality isn't so good. A friend made it for me.”

“I took tabla lessons for two years, but I couldn't drum as fast as this guy if I took lessons for twenty years. He's incredible,” Deanna says.

“It's called a darbuka. The artist's name is Simona Abdallah.”

“Simona?! A woman darbuka player?” Sittu pops her head into the front seat again.

“
Wallah
,” Hassan says. “She's Palestinian and grew up in Denmark. She lives in San Francisco. Her first solo album is coming out in the fall.”

“Amazing,” Sittu remarks.

“Madam, you like it?” Hassan turns his head to her.

“A woman professionally playing the darbuka? Wonderful!” Sittu taps the top of his head. “Eyes on the road.”

“Why is that so rare?” I ask Hassan.

Hassan shrugs. “The darbuka is usually played by men.”

“She's incredible,” I say.

“She taught herself when she was fifteen.” My age.

“She didn't have it easy, but she didn't give up either,” he says. “And guess who her favorite singer is?”

“Umm Kulthum,” I say, not sure how I know, but I just do.

“How'd you guess?” He turns to me and smiles. I can feel the back of my neck turn red. At least it's not my face that gets red when I'm embarrassed.

“The road,” Sittu reminds him.

Hassan quickly turns his eyes back to the road.

“Nice beat,” Deanna says. “But do you have any Amr Diab?”

“You know Amr Diab?” Hassan sounds shocked. He adjusts the rearview mirror, and I catch Deanna shifting to see him in it.

“Of course,” Deanna says. “I love all Middle Eastern music.”

Hassan takes a different CD from the glove compartment and pops it in. Deanna begins to sing along. Must be Amr Diab.

“You have a wonderful voice,” Hassan says. “You know Arabic?”

“
Shway
shway
.”

“She is modest,” Sittu says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

“I don't know all the words,” Deanna says.

“Teach my heart to love. Live with me in my dreams…”

“Your voice is pretty nice too,” Deanna says, flirting, ignoring Baba's warning.

I know if a guy were into me, I wouldn't want him to sing some totally obvious love song. It would be something more subtle, like… Well, I don't know exactly, but I know he would choose something special. A song just for me.

• • •

It's bad enough that for most of the drive out to Giza, Deanna and Hassan sing like they've been a duet for years, but when Sittu joins in, I want to yell, “Stop the car!” so I can get out and walk. I keep my face turned toward the Egyptian countryside flying by my window, pretending to be fascinated.

Deanna finally stops singing. “Look! The pyramids.” She rolls down her window, letting all the hot air out and the cold air in.

“Welcome to the Pyramid of Khufu,” Hassan says, pulling into the parking area.

I don't turn from my window. What's the big deal? Three big triangles. So what?

“They're more than four thousand years old,” Deanna says with awe. “They're one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the only one that still exists.”

OMG, she's like a guidebook now.

“This is the biggest of all the pyramids in Egypt,” Hassan says as we get out of the car.

“There are more than these?”

I give Deanna a look she doesn't notice. Why is she playing dumb? She knows more facts about pyramids than the ancient Egyptians who built the stupid things.

“Almost a hundred,” Hassan says.

I walk behind Deanna and Hassan as they exchange pyramid trivia, even more grateful for the sunglasses Sittu gave me—no one can see my eyes rolling.

“So,
habibti
, what do you think?” Sittu locks her arm through mine.

“About what?” I ask, distracted by the banter in front of us.

“The Great Pyramid.” Sittu tilts my chin toward the sky.

I have to stop walking and just stare. The pyramids really are the most awesome sight I've ever seen.

Every teacher who ever went to Egypt on vacation always insisted on showing me their pyramid shots. Like they wanted to show the little Egyptian girl they understood her, prove that they had traveled to her homeland. I used to think they could've saved the airfare and walked five blocks from the school if they really wanted to see where I'm from. But now, looking up at this spectacle, I'm completely stunned. I wonder if those teachers just wanted to share their experience with someone they thought would get it, someone who'd seen them, and would know how no photograph or video could do it justice.

“Sittu, I don't remember a lot about Egypt when I was here as a little kid, but I can't believe I would have forgotten this.”

“Giddu wanted to take you, but your
baba
never wanted to go. He used to joke if you've seen one pyramid, you've seen them all. And your mother didn't feel comfortable letting you go without your
baba
going.”

“You didn't want to go?”

“I had seen these pyramids so many times in my life, on so many school trips, I had no desire to push the issue. Besides, I thought you'd appreciate the experience more when you were older.”

“The pyramid's a lot taller than the pictures make it look.”

“One hundred and thirty-nine meters, or, as you would say in America, about four hundred and fifty feet,” Hassan says, joining our conversation. “It used to be the tallest structure in the world until the French built the Eiffel Tower.”

“Actually, the spire of Lincoln Cathedral was built first,” I say, surprised at how annoyed I sound.

“Oh, well, I stand corrected.”

Deanna and Sittu lift up their sunglasses and look at me.

I'm about to apologize when Hassan says, “I'll be right back. I'm going to get tickets.”

“You know, Mar, I've been to DC, and no way is it that tall,” Deanna says.

“That's the Lincoln Memorial,” I say, still irritated, but at Deanna for defending Hassan.

“Well, it must be nice to know so much,” Sittu says.

I look at Sittu and Deanna, then run to catch up with Hassan.

He waits for me to speak.

“Thank—
Shukran
, I mean, for driving us here today. This really is pretty amazing.”

“
Afwan
.” He nods at me, and it's clear he knows I'm apologizing. That cute dimple, right there in the middle of his chin, makes me think he forgives me. Maybe he's not such a bad guy after all.