Science Center in the University of Amsterdam. He is head of global semiconductor research and semiconductor lithography—the prime manufacturing technology for making the memory chips and processors used in PCs, smart phones and tablets.
Rafik rubs his face. “That's a pretty good bet, even if you convert. You too, Jana. Without an Internet, there isn't much use for web designers. I'm afraid both of your jobs will be banned.”
“What about the university?” Jana asks.
“They will close it for a while. When Shiite fundamentalists took over Iran in 1979, the universities were closed for two years. I imagine classes will be scaled down considerably when they reopen. Concentrating on Islamic studies. Open to Muslims only.”
“Men only?” Jana puts a hand on Katrien's shoulder.
“Probably.”
Fawaz Jneid takes a drink of water, his face sweaty under camera lights. He continues. “We hope, inshallah, to live together in harmony. Any act of sabotage or resistance will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy, according to sharia law.”
In one five minute speech, the most liberal country in the world has become the most conservative. He finishes with an Islamic prayer and a final Allahu Akbar.
Everyone in the room is silent.
Rafik clears his throat. “I know it's not much to celebrate, but today I was made chief of police for the local precinct.”
“Because you're Muslim?” Katrien asks.
Rafik's heavy hand gently caresses her hair, and tucks a lock round her ear. He looks at Jana. “As long as I have a job, you will have half of my salary.”
“Rafik, that isn't necessary,” says Pieter.
“Yes, it is.”
Headscarf
Katrien and Joury sit on the floor in Katrien's bedroom, rummaging through a large box, whipping out scarves, flinging them around the room like demented magicians. Huge paisleys from India, Mondrian geometrics, silk screen reproductions of impressionist paintings. Valentino, Alexander McQueen, Givenchy, and Salvatore Ferragamo purchased from Gucci, Selfridges, and Harrods. Silk. Chiffon. Pashmina.
The room looks like a tropical wonderland, scarves covering every surface. An orgy of scarves.
“These were all your grandmother's?” Joury asks.
“She bought one whenever she traveled . . . like souvenirs. Look . . . some she made. See the edges? She bought material and stitched them by hand.” Katrien shows Joury the narrow roll hem, the stitches so neat and even.
Katrien worries about school, which resumes tomorrow. Girls are not required to go, but may attend girls-only madrassahs until age sixteen. No further education is permitted. She does not need to wear a burka over her uniform. O nly a headscarf. Until she gets her period.
“Maybe we should go with something not too flashy,” advises Joury.
“They're all so pretty.”
“I know. How about this one?” Joury selects a solid royal blue scarf with a wavy weave.
Katrien sniffs the fabric—it smells of her grandmother's perfume—then lays it over her hair. Her bushy dark curls resist, trying to escape, springing out around her forehead, behind her ears. Her hair will not be tamed. She stands to look in the mirror over her bureau. “I look like a mental patient.”
Joury giggles. “Fold it into a triangle. When you put it over your head, leave one end longer than the other. Pin it under your chin, then take the longer side, hold it like this under the pin, lift it sideways over the pin, and tuck it under your ear.”
Joury's long eyelashes brush Katrien's cheek, her dark eyes full of mischief. They turn and look into the mirror together. “You still look like a mental patient,” says Joury.
“Why do we have to wear these damn things, anyhow?”
“Because one glimpse of our hair drives men into a sexual frenzy. When the sun warms our hair it releases pheromones, which stimulate the primitive parts of their
Rafik rubs his face. “That's a pretty good bet, even if you convert. You too, Jana. Without an Internet, there isn't much use for web designers. I'm afraid both of your jobs will be banned.”
“What about the university?” Jana asks.
“They will close it for a while. When Shiite fundamentalists took over Iran in 1979, the universities were closed for two years. I imagine classes will be scaled down considerably when they reopen. Concentrating on Islamic studies. Open to Muslims only.”
“Men only?” Jana puts a hand on Katrien's shoulder.
“Probably.”
Fawaz Jneid takes a drink of water, his face sweaty under camera lights. He continues. “We hope, inshallah, to live together in harmony. Any act of sabotage or resistance will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy, according to sharia law.”
In one five minute speech, the most liberal country in the world has become the most conservative. He finishes with an Islamic prayer and a final Allahu Akbar.
Everyone in the room is silent.
Rafik clears his throat. “I know it's not much to celebrate, but today I was made chief of police for the local precinct.”
“Because you're Muslim?” Katrien asks.
Rafik's heavy hand gently caresses her hair, and tucks a lock round her ear. He looks at Jana. “As long as I have a job, you will have half of my salary.”
“Rafik, that isn't necessary,” says Pieter.
“Yes, it is.”
Headscarf
Katrien and Joury sit on the floor in Katrien's bedroom, rummaging through a large box, whipping out scarves, flinging them around the room like demented magicians. Huge paisleys from India, Mondrian geometrics, silk screen reproductions of impressionist paintings. Valentino, Alexander McQueen, Givenchy, and Salvatore Ferragamo purchased from Gucci, Selfridges, and Harrods. Silk. Chiffon. Pashmina.
The room looks like a tropical wonderland, scarves covering every surface. An orgy of scarves.
“These were all your grandmother's?” Joury asks.
“She bought one whenever she traveled . . . like souvenirs. Look . . . some she made. See the edges? She bought material and stitched them by hand.” Katrien shows Joury the narrow roll hem, the stitches so neat and even.
Katrien worries about school, which resumes tomorrow. Girls are not required to go, but may attend girls-only madrassahs until age sixteen. No further education is permitted. She does not need to wear a burka over her uniform. O nly a headscarf. Until she gets her period.
“Maybe we should go with something not too flashy,” advises Joury.
“They're all so pretty.”
“I know. How about this one?” Joury selects a solid royal blue scarf with a wavy weave.
Katrien sniffs the fabric—it smells of her grandmother's perfume—then lays it over her hair. Her bushy dark curls resist, trying to escape, springing out around her forehead, behind her ears. Her hair will not be tamed. She stands to look in the mirror over her bureau. “I look like a mental patient.”
Joury giggles. “Fold it into a triangle. When you put it over your head, leave one end longer than the other. Pin it under your chin, then take the longer side, hold it like this under the pin, lift it sideways over the pin, and tuck it under your ear.”
Joury's long eyelashes brush Katrien's cheek, her dark eyes full of mischief. They turn and look into the mirror together. “You still look like a mental patient,” says Joury.
“Why do we have to wear these damn things, anyhow?”
“Because one glimpse of our hair drives men into a sexual frenzy. When the sun warms our hair it releases pheromones, which stimulate the primitive parts of their
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