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minutes stretched as I watched Dalia and waited for Jehan. I tried to imagine our future and for the first time I wondered if this salon was our destiny-if we were destined to remain single all of our lives. The thought of being married to an Arab man turned my stomach, as it did Dalia’s, but this first realization that I might end up totally alone disturbed me. How would I feel if I found myself attracted to a Muslim man? I wondered. The gravity of Dalia’s dilemma began to weigh heavily on my mind. How would my parents and brothers react to something like that? The killing and imprisonment of women who broke the rules wasn’t just Islamic; it crossed religious lines. Now that the informal affection of childhood had been replaced with rigid control over me, I could picture my brothers battling with my father over who would cast the first stone.
    If you learn nothing else growing up in Jordan, you learn two things very early: the first, that Muslims and Christians
    must never intermarry, and the second, which was just as important, that you must never lose composure in public regardless of how serious your personal problems were. I suspect that no other nationality ever believed so vehemently in that old aphorism, ‘never air your dirty laundry in public’. Christians and Muslims were perfectly friendly and hospitable towards one another in public, but they would never, ever let their children marry.
    My brothers had worked very hard over the years to maintain the ‘honourable family image’ my parents insisted we portray. If you met my brothers in public, you’d find four well-educated, professional, refined young gentlemen. Ranging from twenty-three to thirty-two, from average-looking to handsome, they appeared to be modern young Arab men. But this was a facade that demonstrated none of the dynamic that went on behind the closed doors of our home.
    There, my brothers’ true natures were revealed. While their friends might have difficulty picturing them reacting with violence if they found I was romantically interested in a man, it was easy for me to imagine. My brothers’ fierce natures would not surprise any Arab woman who knew from birth that what women call brutal, men define as necessary. These were the secrets hidden from the street. All Arab men are taught that it is their responsibility to discipline the women in their lives,
    and that the best way to do so is through corporal punishment. My brothers were no exception. It was not uncommon to hear of women being physically abused not only by their husbands or fathers, but also by their sons and brothers for minor reasons -preparing the wrong food for dinner, or taking too long with the laundry. Though my father and brothers were lenient about such trivial things, I didn’t doubt for a second that they would react violently over more serious matters, such as relationships.
     
    I dreaded the look of dismay and disdain I knew would come over my mother’s round and lovely face if I ever did something to truly anger them. She was nearing fifty-four and was short and pleasantly stocky. She had creamy white skin, high pink colour in her cheeks, and black eyes that twinkled like bright stars. Sometimes when I looked into her eyes, I sensed that the gleam reflected the tears hidden behind her cheerful spirit. There were days I would catch her sitting alone, when she thought no one could see her, with a distant look in her eyes, as if picturing herself in another life. I sensed I was glimpsing ghosts of lost opportunities tucked away in her heart. But she forced herself to live an illusion, rationalizing that if she pretended to be satisfied long enough she would one day wake up content.
    My father, though more threatening in size, would probably be the least physically explosive of all my family members. In contrast to his formidable appearance, he was a very sedate man who, even if profoundly upset, would never show it. If I ever formed a romantic relationship