The Butterfly Mosque by G. Willow Wilson

cheerful.
    â€œAnd they didn’t freak out?”
    â€œNo. They have concerns, of course, but they’re happy for us. They want you to come over for lunch so we can all talk.”
    Though Omar’s divorced mother and father were both nontraditional—they had been secular leftists in the wake of the revolution—it was still shocking for a young man to get engaged without first asking his parents’ permission. Omar was not afraid of appearing eccentric. When his generation became religious, defying the westernized, socialist tendencies of their parents, he forged his own unorthodox path. He defended his music against the fundamentalists, and his piety against the secularists, at a time when people were pressured to choose a side. By simply announcing that he would marry me—without fanfare or apology—he was saying that he would tolerate no opposition.
    The day of the lunch, I spent half an hour trying to decide what to wear. I was still getting ready when Omar arrived to pick me up.
    â€œI feel like we’re doing something wrong,” I fretted as I put on my shoes. “I don’t like just showing up like this. ‘Hi, I’m your white American in-the-closet-convert future daughter-in-law. I’ve brought you some flowers and a catastrophe.’”
    Omar shook his head. “We’re not doing anything wrong. This is our decision.” He smiled. “Everyone is going to like you.”
    â€œEveryone?” I looked up at him flirtatiously.
    â€œYes, everyone.” He squeezed my hand. “I love you.”
    When we arrived at their apartment, I paid closer attention than I had the other time I’d visited. It was a snug space: two tiny bedrooms and a kitchen leading off of a main room that served as the living and dining area. Spread throughout the apartment was a great quantity of books. On almost every wall there were shelves lined with philosophies and histories in Arabic, novels in English and French. They competed for space with a few houseplants and a framed picture of Gamal Abdel Nasser, leader of the Egyptian revolution. On a wide couch in the main room lay two of Omar’s ouds—ancestors of the lute—and an electric guitar.
    Omar’s mother, Sohair, came out to greet us. I let out a breath when I saw she was smiling.
    â€œHello, my dear,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks. “Come sit down, please. Will you take tea?”
    Another head poked around the corner from the hall: it was Ibrahim, Omar’s younger brother. He came into the room with bright, wide eyes, holding out his hand. He was fairer than either Sohair or Omar—as a child he had been red-headed, a characteristic of his father’s family, who hailed from the Nile Delta. He was six years younger than Omar, a year older than me.
    â€œAhlan,
” he said, shaking my hand. “Do you know
ahlan?
It means welcome.”
    â€œI know
ahlan,
” I said, feeling suddenly shy.
    â€œShe took Arabic in college,” Omar chimed in. “She knows a lot of words.”
    â€œNot really. I’ve found out everything I know is useless. I can tell you the new secretary is Lebanese, but I can’t ask for directions.”
    Ibrahim laughed. “That’s all right. We will teach you whatever you want to know.”
    As the four of us sat together and talked, I began to relax. Sohair and Ibrahim asked about my history and expectations, always kindly and without judgment. Despite the unorthodoxy of our sudden announcement, it was clear they were happy and a little relieved that Omar had found someone he wanted to marry. He had, I gathered, been fussy about potential mates in the past. It was unusual for a pious person to have interests as diverse and artistic as Omar’s, which made looking for a wife more than usually difficult. When Omar insisted he would only marry a woman who was both religious and intellectually independent, his mother