class:
instructor: Susie Kramer
student: Michael
"Wadi-Bashing"
We were wadi-bashing on a Saturday afternoon when I realized I was in love with Mohammed. Not the prophet, mind you, but a friend of mine, a classmate at school. We had both just turned 19.
The Jeep bumped its way down the dry riverbed, flying over boulders and jouncing all of us up and down. My friends in the backseat screamed happily as we rushed down the untrodden road, hair whipping in the current generated by our passage – a welcome one in the summer heat. Mohammed drove, justifiably proud to have passed the state driving exams, urging the Jeep to dangerous speeds.
We were all students of the American-British Academy in Muscat, Oman. Mohammed was one of the few Omani in our class. I'm American; my friends are mostly American, too.
I looked over at Mohammed while he drove, having claimed shotgun. His face was flushed and exhilarated, his light purple dishdasha blowing in the wind. The sky was blue above us. Yesterday he had bought me a bracelet in the gold souq, in the narrow alleyways of the marketplace where tourists abounded. Afterwards he hadn't had enough riyals for lunch and, laughing, I had lent him the money for a burger at McDonald's, one of the many American fast-food chains that have done well here in Muscat.
He looked at me and yelled "Isn't this great?" in Arabic. I felt the bracelet on my wrist now, burning like a brand, and had to suppress the irrational thought that my crush on him was written plain on my face. Cruising down the wadi was fun, and cooling on a hot day like this; better by far than driving in the city, where insane Egyptians were like to crash into you at any moment.
My friend Jessica, a British girl with a charming accent, leaned over the Jeep's rail. "Can we stop for lunch yet?" she screeched.
"Sure," Mohammed yelled back, this time in English – Jessica has been slower to learn Arabic than I, and has only been living here two years to my five. Mohammed has been learning English since elementary school. He pulled the Jeep over, slowing over the rocky ground, and we come to a shuddering halt.
The air seems to solidify around us with heat, but we're all wearing cool clothing; Sara and I in Omani dress, long kandoura cloak with baggy sirwal trousers, gathered at the ankle, and Jessica in Western shorts and a t-shirt. Sara is our food-keeper, since she's the least likely to pinch snacks when we're not looking; she broke out the bags and handed them around. We ate rukhal bread and yogurt, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and some of the addictive halwa Jessica loves, a sticky sweet with stuff in it like sugar, cardamom, and nuts, speaking in a polyglot mix of English and Arabic of inconsequential things. All the while pain surged through me relentlessly. Mohammed's parents may have let him go to the American-British Academy, but I doubted they'd let him date an American girl.
Having lived in Oman five years because of my dad's job, I'm long past the point of making constant social faux pas. I never impolitely refuse an offer of tea anymore, or offer things with my left hand, for instance. But the fact remains that I'm an American, not Omani; a random mix of faiths, not Muslim; and the majority of Omanis here are still rather traditional in their beliefs.
Mohammed smiled at me and waved a hand in front of my face to break my reverie. It near broke my heart instead. "Hello?" he asked.
I tried to smile back. "Yeah?"
"Just making sure you were still there," he said lightly, while watching me closely with his dark eyes.
We finished eating. Jessica, who fancies herself somewhat of a photographer, pulled out the inevitable camera. "Smile," she ordered, and snapped a photo of Mohammed and me.
Jessie," Sara chided jokingly. "You have to ask people's permission before you do that. It's impolite."
"Bah," Jessica replied, dismissing the concern. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked us. "Come on, Sara, I want to take some pictures of you on that boulder." She grabbed the other girl's arm and dragged her away, leaving me and Mohammed sitting alone on the sun-baked ground.
Agony. I scratched some invisible itch on my arm, not knowing what to say. Mohammed looked over at me.
"Are we still going to the shopping center tomorrow?" he asked presently.
"Sara's little brother's birthday is then," I replied, still not looking his way, "and Jessica has a test to study for."
He blinked. "I thought..." He paused. "Well, can you go?"
"Yes..." I left the sentence dangling, not sure what to think.
"But you do not think it is right for us to go together," he finished.
"I'm surprised you're saying that to me and not the other way round," I retorted. "You're the traditionalist."
He sighed. "My family is not so harsh. They would understand, if..."
"If?" I asked, pain making me terse.
He met my eyes, smiling faintly. "Insha'Allah, God willing, they would understand if I chose to spend time with one of my friends."
Disappointment flooded me, bitter and cold. Jessica and Sara returned, Jessica flushed and triumphant and yelling about the great shots she'd gotten. We piled back into the Jeep. I let Jessica take the front seat.
We bounced our way back down the wadi.
Two days later, my dad got a message from his boss; he was no longer needed in Oman. We could return to the States. I said tearful farewells to Jessica and Sara and the rest of my friends at the Academy, who told me to write and call often. I promised I would.
Mohammed said goodbye to me as well, taking my hands and pressing them. "May the Prophet, peace be upon him, always watch over you," he said. I snatched my hands back and walked away without saying anything.
That night, I cried, and in the morning, we boarded a plane, and were gone from Oman forever.