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Hannah Matus Biography

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“She didn’t have a very clear vision of her future as a married woman. She assumed she would get married one day—she did want kids, after all. She thought. Th ey did look so adorable from far away, if a bit messy. And to a practicing Muslim woman, marriage was sort of a prerequisite to acquiring those. But what that would be like, look like, feel like, she couldn’t really say.”

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“She tried not to be judgmental of others. With her family, she couldn’t afford to be. They were a good example of a spectrum of religiosity, with Leedya representing the more liberal end and Maryam holding on firmly to a more conservative outlook. The rest of them fell more or less in the middle. Elizza would give her opinion on matters of religion if asked, but never felt comfortable correcting or imposing it on others.”

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“It was often difficult for guests to sort out seating at a mixed wedding. Did the men go find seating with other men? Was each family supposed to find enough places for all their members at a table? Seating was rarely ever assigned at Arab mixed weddings, because you could never expect everyone who showed up to actually RSVP—or for those who RSVP’d to actually show up. Most times, you had to play it by ear.”

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“Jana was loved by all the Libyan moms, especially the ones with eligible sons. Elizza was not such a big hit. She got along great with everyone, but the moms looked at her with a sort of disapproval. They couldn’t quite put their finger on what exactly they disapproved of. They just had an instinct that this girl would give their son trouble if he was to marry her, and so they warned each other with subtle looks and some outright rude comments about her, to steer their sons away. They wanted someone haadiya for their sons. Elizza was still trying to tap down the exact Arabic to English translation of that word, but the general idea of it was quiet, shy, obedient. All she knew was, she was not it.”

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“Jana needed this in her life. To move on. To have someone value her for who she was. To love and appreciate her, make her the center of his world in the way she was never able to be as the oldest of five sisters. She really hoped that BenAli turned out to be that man, for her sister’s sake. But Elizza wasn’t sure where that would leave her. She longed, too. Longed for someone to truly see her—not her beauty or education or outspokenness or anything else, but to see her. She would do what Allah (SWT) commanded, be her best Muslim self, but she silently prayed for a partner to help her along the journey. Maybe she needed to do something tangible to get there? She woke up to pray tahajjud.”

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“Tell me,” she interrupted. “What do you want in a husband exactly?” Elizza gave the question careful consideration for a few moments before replying. “ A good Muslim man who encourages me to do good—” “Kamal is a hafidh,” her mother cut in. Repeating the phrase for the umpteenth time. “—and allows me to grow at my own pace!” Elizza finished. “Someone who supports my goals as if they were his own. Someone considerate of the needs of others. Educated. Good looking. A six pack would be nice,” she ended with a laugh. Her mother swatted her arm.”

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“Elizza continued to scroll. It only got worse from there. Bandwagons of other girls, Libyan and non-Libyan, joined the thread with their own comments, so that within twenty or so tweets about the subject, what started out as blatant appreciation of male physical perfection soon downward spiraled into down-right stalking. She had to stop herself after a few minutes of reading—she didn’t think she could handle much more of it. She only knew of one word to describe the sad little thread, if only she could think of it. What is that word the young kids used these days? Oh yeah. Thirsty.”

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“During the period of her adolescence, her burgeoning womanhood, high school and throughout college, her awareness of the other sex had been an involuntary thing that crept up on her unasked for and unwanted. She would come into contact with these guys, or boys really, who she really didn’t even like all that much. She could discern the weakness in their characters in a heartbeat, see into the core of their insecurities with ease. Figure out what they were hungry for in life and discern their superficialities. And yet it was these guys who would make her palms moist with sweat when they approached, whose presence sucked the air out of her chest, whose off hand comments to her made her speechless and inarticulate. Not the top-of-the-class guy with his subtle opinions and depth of character, but the attractive, muscular idiot.”

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“She tried not to center her life around dreaming of relationships or marriage or guys—there was more to life. More that she had to offer the world than merely being some guy’s wife. She had hopes, dreams, ambitions. “Marriage is half of our religion,” Maryam liked to remark, but without showing much interest in being a wife herself. Sure, Elizza thought, but I’m not even done refining the other half yet.”

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“She was starting to hate the idea of marriage. She didn’t ever want to get married. Why? For what? From what she’d seen, it just made everyone miserable. Particularly women. They lost everything when they got married—most importantly, their independence. There was supposedly this new generation of Muslim men that were fine recognizing a woman’s right to independence— for the price of taking on a man’s responsibility. Cheap, right? As long as she was willing to work full time, use her money to pay bills, take care of all household chores, spoil her husband, watch the kids, care for the kids, cook for the family, grocery shop, maintain the entire house, spend time with everyone, carefully budget expenses, she could go wherever she wanted. But just when, exactly, was she supposed to have the time?”

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