was the ultimate end of all our labors. And though I didn’t know much about our faith, I knew how important Paradise was. To us Muslims, life here on earth was of no value if it did not lead to that abode of endless peace and pleasure, where rivers of milk and honey flowed, and where the famous virgin hordes awaited our arrival.
I didn’t know what the word “virgin” meant, though I knew it had something to do with the uneasy fascination and shame that came over me when, say, Bo Derek floated across our TV screen jogging through a golden haze in ads for 10 ; or while watching the endless parade of bikini-clad women in high heels stopping to pose for the camera on the beauty pageants that Mother—inexplicably, considering her seemingly ceaseless disdain for white women—watched religiously. I knew the word “virgin” had something to do with the lure of a woman’s unclothed body, still mysterious to me, as I knew nothing more about the facts of life than that it was the name of a television show about four girls at boarding school. And compounding my confusion was the apparent paradox: Why were these bodies so forbidden to us now if they were precisely what was promised to us later in Janaat?
“Are you a hafiz, Auntie?” I asked.
She laughed. “I’m too lazy for that, behta. Learning the Quran is hard work. It takes many years, and a very special person. A hafiz never gives up.”
Nothing seemed more remarkable to me at that moment than the mysterious hafiz, whoever they were.
Mina turned the pages back to the opening. “Let’s read it again,” she said.
“Together?”
“No, behta. You read it to me.”
I did. My voice rattled softly in my throat and chest as I read aloud. When Mina stopped me to ask if I understood what I was saying, I realized I’d been paying no attention to what I was reading, only to the pleasure of the sounds themselves.
So I read the verses to her again.
“I understand the words, Hayat,” she said, stopping me. “I want to know what they mean. ”
I was looking at her lips as she spoke, their pink, plump, ridged surface moving with her words. The side of her face was bright, lit by her bedside lamp, and the other half receded gently into shadows. She was beautiful.
“Hayat? Hayat?”
“Yes, Auntie?”
“I want you to concentrate, okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let’s take a look at these lines again. Three words are repeated more than one time …What are they?”
I looked down at the page. In the lamplight, the black letters pulsed against the yellow-white page; Mina’s fingers—tipped with red—moved along the lines. I tried to focus, looking for the repeated words.
In the name of God, the Benevolent, the Merciful.
Praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds,
The Benevolent, the Merciful.
“ ‘God,’ ‘benevolent,’ ‘merciful,’ ” I said.
“Good. Now, you already know what ‘God’ means. But how about these other words. Let’s start with ‘merciful.’ What does ‘merciful’ mean?”
“It means nice?”
“Not only. It means something more precise than that.”
I had a soft feeling about the word, something kind, something released or releasing. But I didn’t know how to explain it.
“I don’t know,” I replied, annoyed.
“Let me help you, Hayat…When someone hits you, what do you do about it?”
“Hit them back?”
“Or?”
I thought for a moment. “You tell someone?”
She smiled. “Or?”
I didn’t know.
“You can forgive them,” she said. “If you forgive them, you’re showing mercy.” I was surprised. There was a force in the clarity of her definition. It made her seem even more remarkable to me. “And ‘benevolent’?” she continued. “Do you know what that means?”
I shrugged. I didn’t.
“It means doing good,” she said, softly. “When you do something good, you are being benevolent.” She reached out and touched the side of my face. “So what is the beginning of our Quran
I didn’t know what the word “virgin” meant, though I knew it had something to do with the uneasy fascination and shame that came over me when, say, Bo Derek floated across our TV screen jogging through a golden haze in ads for 10 ; or while watching the endless parade of bikini-clad women in high heels stopping to pose for the camera on the beauty pageants that Mother—inexplicably, considering her seemingly ceaseless disdain for white women—watched religiously. I knew the word “virgin” had something to do with the lure of a woman’s unclothed body, still mysterious to me, as I knew nothing more about the facts of life than that it was the name of a television show about four girls at boarding school. And compounding my confusion was the apparent paradox: Why were these bodies so forbidden to us now if they were precisely what was promised to us later in Janaat?
“Are you a hafiz, Auntie?” I asked.
She laughed. “I’m too lazy for that, behta. Learning the Quran is hard work. It takes many years, and a very special person. A hafiz never gives up.”
Nothing seemed more remarkable to me at that moment than the mysterious hafiz, whoever they were.
Mina turned the pages back to the opening. “Let’s read it again,” she said.
“Together?”
“No, behta. You read it to me.”
I did. My voice rattled softly in my throat and chest as I read aloud. When Mina stopped me to ask if I understood what I was saying, I realized I’d been paying no attention to what I was reading, only to the pleasure of the sounds themselves.
So I read the verses to her again.
“I understand the words, Hayat,” she said, stopping me. “I want to know what they mean. ”
I was looking at her lips as she spoke, their pink, plump, ridged surface moving with her words. The side of her face was bright, lit by her bedside lamp, and the other half receded gently into shadows. She was beautiful.
“Hayat? Hayat?”
“Yes, Auntie?”
“I want you to concentrate, okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let’s take a look at these lines again. Three words are repeated more than one time …What are they?”
I looked down at the page. In the lamplight, the black letters pulsed against the yellow-white page; Mina’s fingers—tipped with red—moved along the lines. I tried to focus, looking for the repeated words.
In the name of God, the Benevolent, the Merciful.
Praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds,
The Benevolent, the Merciful.
“ ‘God,’ ‘benevolent,’ ‘merciful,’ ” I said.
“Good. Now, you already know what ‘God’ means. But how about these other words. Let’s start with ‘merciful.’ What does ‘merciful’ mean?”
“It means nice?”
“Not only. It means something more precise than that.”
I had a soft feeling about the word, something kind, something released or releasing. But I didn’t know how to explain it.
“I don’t know,” I replied, annoyed.
“Let me help you, Hayat…When someone hits you, what do you do about it?”
“Hit them back?”
“Or?”
I thought for a moment. “You tell someone?”
She smiled. “Or?”
I didn’t know.
“You can forgive them,” she said. “If you forgive them, you’re showing mercy.” I was surprised. There was a force in the clarity of her definition. It made her seem even more remarkable to me. “And ‘benevolent’?” she continued. “Do you know what that means?”
I shrugged. I didn’t.
“It means doing good,” she said, softly. “When you do something good, you are being benevolent.” She reached out and touched the side of my face. “So what is the beginning of our Quran
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