Rebels by Accident (12 page)

“It's not the best plan for today,” Sittu replies.

“Please,” Deanna pleads, “think about what this would mean. It's our chance to fight for Egypt! We can't let Asmaa do this alone.”

“
Habibti
, she won't be alone. Many youth will be there, I'm sure. Youth groups are the reason I'm on Facebook. When I see what these young people are doing, they give me hope.”

“Back home, we use Facebook to tell our friends what song we just downloaded—so lame,” Deanna says.

“The youth here are doing that too,
habibti
.”

“But they are also talking about trying to make a difference,” Deanna says. “We should help them.”

“Deanna, stop pushing. Sittu doesn't want us to go, and we need to respect her decision.”

“She never said she didn't want us to go. Right?” Deanna looks up at Sittu, her eyes so wide I'm afraid her eyeballs will pop out of their sockets.

Sittu's quiet for a long moment. Sittu can't seriously be considering giving her permission? How totally irresponsible would it be to take us to some protest—especially after what happened to my father—when she's supposed to keep us safe? Sittu walks over to the mirror. I've never noticed it before, but Sittu and I have the same full cheeks, large round eyes, and classic Egyptian nose. My lips aren't as full as hers, and there is green mixed into the brown of my eyes, but I look like her—a lot. Except the features that look so beautiful on Sittu don't do anything for me. She adjusts the barrette holding her hair. The movement feels so familiar. Maybe I do have memories from my last visit. Sittu's hair is all white, and yet she looks so young to me right now. “I would love to go to the protest today.”

“You can't do that!” The words just burst out of me.

“I can't?” Sittu snaps at me. “You are telling me I can't?”

“Last night you told me about Baba getting arrested and tortured!”

“Your father was tortured?” Deanna sounds as shocked as I was.

“Mariam.” Sittu moves closer to me, and I flinch.

“Do you think I would ever put my hand to you?” she asks.

“You just sound so angry.”

“Mariam.” Her voice is softer now. “I may do Facebook, but I'm very old-school about some things. A granddaughter yelling at her grandmother about what she can or can't do is disrespectful.”

“I didn't mean—”

“I know, I know.” Sittu holds my chin in her palm. “But think before you speak.”

“So then we're going?” Deanna is so smiling inside.

Sittu drops her hand. “I love your spirit, Deanna. You remind me very much of a dear friend of mine.”

Now I know Deanna's beaming inside.

“But,
habibti
, Mubarak's security forces are also looking at these tweets and Facebook updates and all the communication about the protest. They know exactly where people plan to gather, and they will have these areas blocked off. Look at what happened just last week to poor Asmaa—only three people and so many security forces. It's wonderful that there are so many young people trying to make change, but this will be one more demonstration in a long line of useless demonstrations.”

“Really?” Deanna sounds crushed.

Sittu's phone beeps. She ignores it, but it continues to beep. Finally she reads the message on the screen then says, “Deanna, may I please sit at the computer?” Sittu sits down, and we watch as she pulls up another video of Asmaa.

“Is that new?” Deanna asks.

“Yes. From last night.” Sittu hits play.

“She looks happier in this video,” Deanna comments.

“Shush, please,” Sittu says.

We're silent as Sittu listens to the girl speak in Arabic. Asmaa seems more passionate than she did before; she looks as if whatever she's saying is the most important thing in the world. And from the way Sittu is so attentive and still, I think she must feel the same way.

When the video ends, Sittu shuts down the computer. “Okay, I am going to do the morning prayer, and then we can have a little to eat, unless you want to sleep more.”

“But what did she say?” Deanna asks.

“More words.”

Last night, Sittu said words without action have no meaning. I can't help but wonder if this applies to Sittu too, or if she's excused from this.

Sittu pauses. “Okay, I'll tell you, but then no more talk of this today.”

Deanna nods, but I can't believe she'll let this go.

“She talks about how people have been working very hard for today's protests. Children under fourteen and older people in their sixties and seventies, old people like me”—Sittu half smiles—“all working to spread the word about the peaceful protest. She says if we all stand together against the security forces and the police, we can demand our rights—that we must demand our rights.”

“Please, let us go and support her and Egypt.” Deanna sounds like, any minute, she's going to get down on her knees and beg.

“You agreed: no more talk,” Sittu says. “I believe you are a woman of honor.”

“Fine,” Deanna says, and when I look into her eyes, I realize this is the first time I've ever seen her look defeated.

“Thank you for your love of this country.” Sittu kisses Deanna on the forehead, and I'm feeling jealous. “If I could,” Sittu continues, “I would give you an Egyptian passport, though unfortunately, your American passport gets you treated far better here. Still, in my eyes, you are Egypt.”

For the first time, maybe in my whole life, I wish I were Egypt too.

“Okay, my loves, it's getting late. I need to pray.” Sittu walks out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“What happened, Mariam?” Deanna asks.

“I didn't tell Sittu not to take us,” I defend.

“No, but you didn't fight for us to go either.”

“How can I ask Sittu to take us after she told me what happened to my father?”

“Mariam, this isn't about your father, and Sittu isn't afraid, for her or for us. Sittu's not going to the protest today because she's lost hope. And here you are, her only granddaughter, hating everything about yourself, the culture that's a part of you. If I were her, I'd feel hopeless too. When are you going to wake up and see what matters?”

Deanna stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I want to yell after her, but the things I want to say I cannot say in Sittu's house. So instead I get dressed for the mall, putting on a blue T-shirt and the jeans that make my butt look fat.

“Deanna, can you believe it?” I point to a girl standing in front of the electronics store. “She's wearing the same T-shirt you gave me.”

Deanna ignores me. She's still not talking to me. Like it's my fault she can't go and save Egypt.

“What girl?” Sittu asks.

I point.

Sittu pulls my hand down. “Don't point.”

“Sorry. She's wearing the pretty lavender hijab. See? Her shirt has the word
lipstick
painted with pink glitter across the chest… I haven't gotten to wear it though.”

“Your parents?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if your shirt is that tight, I wouldn't let you wear it either.”

It's awkward to hear my grandmother talk about this, so I change the topic. “Her hijab is beautiful. The ones I see people wearing back home are usually pretty boring. Right, Deanna?”

“Is this mall always so empty?” Deanna asks as if I weren't there. She's right. Maybe everyone is going to show up to support Asmaa this time.

“Times are rough,” Sittu says. “There's not a lot of money to spend.” She pulls us in front of a store window. “What do you think about these jeans?” she asks me, nodding toward the mannequin.

“Those are kinda cute,” I say.

“What do you think? Shall we go in?” Sittu asks.

I glance at Deanna, who is still pretending I don't exist.

“I guess,” I say, but I feel strange about shopping for jeans while Asmaa might be at Tahrir Square alone. What if the mall is empty because everyone is at home for the holiday, not because they are going to protest?

We all walk into the store. Usually, Deanna would be all over this place, wanting to try on everything, but right now, she looks bored.

“You girls look around, and I'll see about getting someone to help us.”

I start thumbing through jeans folded on a shelf but can't find my size. “Mar, come over here,” Deanna calls.

I'm so excited she's talking to me I practically skip over to her.

“Aren't these beautiful?” Deanna asks, standing in front of a display of hijabs. “The turquoise one is to die for.” She picks it up. “Touch it. It's silk, like Sittu's dress.”

“Feels nice,” I say.

“Turquoise is feminine but not too girly. What do you think? Should I get one?”

“For what?” I ask.

“To wear, of course.”

“Why on earth would you want to cover your pretty hair?”

“The saleswoman will be with us in a minute,” Sittu says, returning to us.

“Sittu, she wants to buy one of those head things.”

“They're beautiful,” Deanna says.

“If you would like to get one, you should,” Sittu says.

“If Deanna wears that around her head, people are going to think she's Muslim,” I say.

“So what if they do?” Deanna asks defensively.

“Well, I just don't know why you would want people to think you are if you're not.”

“Mar,” Deanna says, “I'm used to people assuming things about me.”

“Are you really going to wear it back home? I don't know why anyone would if they didn't have to. I'm just lucky my parents aren't that backward”—I put my hand to my mouth. Sittu's eyes narrow—“I didn't mean…”

“Don't say you didn't mean what you did mean.” Sittu has the same hurt look on her face Baba did when I told him I didn't want to go to Egypt.

“But I didn't mean to upset you.”

“This I know,
habibti
, but I'm not sad for myself.”

“Would you like me to show you how to put it on?” the saleswoman asks Deanna, who's still holding the turquoise hijab in her hand.

Deanna looks at Sittu.

“If you like, be my guest.” Sittu smiles, and I'm surprised she doesn't have a problem with Deanna wearing the hijab.

“
Shukran
,” Deanna says to the saleslady. “That would be great.”

The woman pulls the scarf around Deanna's head and under her chin so tightly it's like she's making it hurricane-proof.

Deanna looks in the mirror. “Beautiful,” the saleslady says.

“The color is very nice on you, Deanna,” Sittu says.

I pretend to look at some long skirts hanging on the rack nearby. It's one thing to want to go to some protest, even to pray with Sittu, but now she wants to wear the hijab? What's she trying to prove?

“
Shukran
,” Deanna says.

“
Afwan
,” the saleswoman says. “Shall I wrap it for you?”

“Let us have a minute,” Sittu says.

“Of course,” the saleswoman says, walking over to a woman who's offering her child a lollipop to get him to stop crying. Of course, it's not working. I don't know why adults always think offering kids something they don't want will make them stop wanting the thing that they do want.

“Do you really like it?” Sittu asks.

“Very much. It's a beautiful color,” Deanna says.

“True, but you do understand it's not just a fashion statement when you wear one of these? It's your choice, of course.”

“Well, maybe I'll think about it some more,” Deanna says. “Can you help me? It's on a bit tight.”

When I turn back to them, Deanna is folding the hijab and placing it back on the shelf.

“Did you want to try on some of those jeans?” Sittu asks me, sounding like everything is cool between us again.

“They only have big sizes—like in the thirties.”

Sittu and Deanna laugh, and even though I'm the target, it's nice to hear Deanna's laugh again.

“What? What am I clueless about this time?”

“Those are European sizes,” Deanna says.

“So what would an eight be?”

“You are not an eight, Mar,” Deanna says.

“I can't be a ten,” I say. “I don't think I've gained any weight.”

“Come here.” Deanna pulls me in front of the mirror. “You're, like, a size two. Smaller than me. Look at your pants! They're all baggy on you.”

“It's true,” Sittu says. “We have to get some meat on your bones. I can't send you back to your
baba
looking like I've starved you.”

Sittu's bag starts to sing, “She wears short skirts. I wear T-shirts…” She rifles through her purse and pulls out her iPhone. “What?” she says.

“Taylor Swift?” Deanna and I both say in unison.

“It was a free download, and it has a peppy beat,” Sittu says, looking down at her phone. “I need to get this…
Aiwa?
… Good to hear your voice too… Just a minute,” she says. “I can't hear you too well.” Sittu presses her phone closer to her ear, covers the other ear with her hand, and walks out of the store.

“I bet it's about the protest,” Deanna says.

“You're not going to let it go, are you?”

“Don't you think Sittu wants to be at Tahrir Square instead of some stupid mall? Doesn't it make you feel bad that the only reason she's probably not there is because she's worried about us?”

I shrug.

“Listen to me.” Deanna stares into my eyes like she's trying to hypnotize me. “Your grandmother has waited all her life to see change happen in this country—”

“No, you listen to me,” I say, surprising myself. From Deanna's half-open mouth, I can tell she's a bit shocked too. “You can blame me all you freakin' want, but did you ever think maybe after she lost her son, she may be a little nervous about something happening to us?”

“Your father's not dead.”

“Well, he may as well be. He never comes to see her. He didn't even go to his own father's funeral. After my father was tortured, Sittu and my grandfather forced him to leave the country, and he never forgave them.”

“Then why did he come back when you were a baby? Maybe your father hasn't visited because of 9/11 and how hard your government makes it for Muslims to travel.”

“I was six when 9/11 happened. I'm sure the only reason my father came when I was a baby was because my mom made him. Sittu doesn't want to risk our safety for what will probably be yet another useless demonstration. People will get arrested, interrogated, and nothing will change.”

“Okay, I get it,” Deanna says. “It must have been a huge deal for your father to even send you here.” We both look over at Sittu, who's standing by the down escalator. “Do you think it's your father?”

I remember how Baba isn't talking to me and feel a moment of sadness.

Before I can respond, Deanna says, “No, it can't be your dad. Look at her, she's talking to some guy she's crushing on.”

“How do you know?”

“See the way she's smiling? That's not just any smile. That's an I'm-really-into-this-guy smile. If there's one thing I know, it's smiles.”

We watch Sittu finish her conversation. When she rejoins us, she still has that silly smile on her face. Maybe Deanna's right. It wouldn't be the first time.

“So who was that?” Deanna's tone is so obvious. Why doesn't she just sing, “Sittu and some guy, sitting in a tree…”?

“It was Ahmed.”

“Ahmed who? There are a lot of Ahmeds in Cairo,” Deanna says.

“You know which Ahmed.” Sittu's actually blushing. I can't believe it.

“What did he want?” Deanna asks.

“To meet for coffee today, but I told him I was spending the afternoon with my granddaughters at the mall. Now, should we go and see about those jeans or try another store?”

“You should have coffee with him,” Deanna says. “Right, Mar?”

“She should do what she wants. What do you want?” I ask my grandmother.

“Oh, throwing my own words back in my face. You are my granddaughter,” Sittu says.

“Well, what do you want?” I ask again.

“I already told him I couldn't.”

“I'm sure there's a café in the mall,” I say.

“Have him meet you here,” Deanna suggests.

“He did say he was in the area.” I can hear from her voice that she really wants to see him. “But I didn't get his number.”

“Can I borrow that?” I snatch the phone from her hand before she has a chance to respond, and I hit the last number in her call log. “It's ringing,” I say, handing her the phone.

Sittu takes the phone back from me. “You are hardheaded like your father.”

And
like
my
sittu, I almost say, but I'm pretty sure she knows this.

“Ahmed? Yes, it's me. It turns out I can meet… Why don't you meet me here…in fifteen minutes?” Sittu looks nervous.

Deanna and I nod and mouth, “Yes. Say yes.”

“Yes, that would be fine.
Wa-Alaikum-Salaam
.” She ends the call. “What are you girls getting me into?” she says.

“It's coffee,” Deanna says. “Just coffee. You may want to refresh your lipstick though.”

“Oh, you.” She nudges Deanna's arm. I've never seen her so playful.

“Is there a bathroom nearby?” Deanna asks.

“Need to refresh your lipstick too?” I ask her.

“Need to pee,” Deanna says.

“There's one over there,” Sittu says, pointing to the WC sign.

Sittu and I take a seat on a metal bench outside the bathroom. We sit for a few minutes before I finally say, “I'm really sorry.”

“Why are you always sorry?” Sittu asks.

“I know I upset you with what I said, and I didn't mean to say people here are backward.”

“
Habibti
, you didn't upset me.”

“You said you were sad.”

She takes my hands in hers and rests them both on her lap. “I'm sad for you, my love.”

“Me?”

“It must be very hard to be ashamed of who you are.”

I pull my hands back. “I'm not ashamed.”

“Then I apologize for making a false judgment. That was my observation. It just seemed that being Muslim, being Egyptian, was the problem for you, not the hijab.”

“I don't have a problem with—” I stop myself. There's nothing I can say to Sittu that could convince her I'm okay with being Muslim and Egyptian, because the truth is I'm not okay with it. It would be so much easier if I were Christian or Jewish or even an atheist.

“It can't be easy,
habibti
, to feel different from everyone around you.”

“But I'm not different,” I say. “Kids at school treat me like I am, but I'm not.”

“Well, this is true. You care about your clothes and boys and—”

“Sittu!” Now I feel my face turning red.

“Okay, no talk about boys, but do the kids at school say things to make you feel like you don't belong?”

“Some of them do,” I say. “They call me names.”

“And what do you tell them?”

I don't respond. I can't think of anything I've ever said to stand up for myself—to Karen or Beth or anyone.

“You have never answered them back? Do you walk away?”

“No. I guess I just stand there and take it.”

“Why do you think this is?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you afraid of these people?”

“No. I'm not afraid of them.”

“So then you want to be like them? Accepted by them?”

“No. Well, maybe I did, but Deanna's showed me they're really jerks.”

“Deanna sounds like she's a good friend.”

“She's the best.”

“Not so smart, though, huh?”

“She's totally smart.”

“Well, she's kind of different herself, with her face not working.”

“Sittu.” I stand up. “I don't mean to disrespect you, but what makes Deanna different from those jerks at school is that she's beautiful and brilliant and—”

I stop talking. She's got me again. “Okay, I get it,” I say, sitting back down.