Dali

recent posts

Mulitdicipinary Writer

  • Only in Memory

    Only in Memory

    I bring an unfamiliar tea
    to my lips and sit in silence.

    I don’t know how
    this mind deteriorated.

    I remember feeling
    a switch, almost,
    flip inside cueing
    credit to roll too early,
    perhaps accidentally.

    Since then,
    everything began
    to float around me.

    What do I do now?
    With thoughts hung like
    upside down furniture,
    afloat without direction;
    with my soul in
    pitiful condition.

    Constantly, I am
    confused at the state
    I have adopted.

    There are questions upon
    questions upon questions
    that I am not sure I will
    come to resolve.

    You bring an accustomed tea
    to your lips, sat across from me
    in my memory. Suddenly, I
    remember. I am reminded
    you were the prelude to it.

    To the beginning of the end,
    to right when I lost that stubborn
    grip I had on reason, on sense.

    Little by little, I remember
    what I have long burned
    from my memory.

    Little by little, I am again
    reminded how foolish
    it is, how foolish I was,
    to love anything at all
    in the senseless ways
    that I had loved you then.

  • Between Here and There: On Choosing to Move Forward When the Path Dissolves

    Between Here and There: On Choosing to Move Forward When the Path Dissolves

    There’s a kind of quiet that only comes with uncertainty—a strange, almost comforting fog that rolls in when you’re standing at a crossroad, feeling as though you could step in any direction—or choose to stay right where you are. Maybe I was waiting for something, hoping that if I held still long enough, the right answer would find me. But life doesn’t always present you with a clear path forward. It keeps you in that fog, where each step feels as unsure as the last, and each decision—big or small—takes you further from the safety of everything you know.

    In a way, it’s like floating between worlds. When you don’t know what’s next, you’re both nowhere and everywhere. That space between here and there makes everything seem both possible and impossible at once. But then fear starts to linger—the fear that if you make the wrong move, you’ll be lost forever. That fear has kept me rooted, motionless, more times than I’d like to admit.

    Sitting in the Fog of Doubt

    The first thing uncertainty does to us is that it strips away everything familiar. It leaves us exposed, sitting there with nothing but the questions we’re too afraid to ask yourself. We feel the weight of all the choices you’ve made and the choices we haven’t made yet, and of the lives we could have led if we have chosen a different way. And there’s an undeniable fear—not the fear of failure, but the fear of making a decision we cannot undo, of stepping forward and realising that the ground beneath us isn’t solid.

    “The first thing uncertainty does to us is that it strips away everything familiar. It leaves us exposed, sitting there with nothing but the questions we’re too afraid to ask yourself.”

    Carl Jung (1968) proposes that this experience forces us to tap into the process of individuation, where we embark on a journey toward becoming a whole, perhaps a more authentic self. In moments of uncertainty, we are often confronted with the disintegration of the persona we wear at work, in social settings, and even around our families—forcing us to reckon with the parts of ourselves that we’ve buried. This confrontation with the unknown reflects the disorientation one feels in the fog of doubt, where there is an inner tension between holding onto familiar roles and embracing the unknown that comes with new choices.

    We often choose to wait in the midst of chaos. We convince ourselves that staying still is the safest option, that we’re being cautious, responsible. But deep down, we know it’s just an excuse to avoid making a choice. The fog becomes comforting, a place where we can putter without having to answer for anything. Yet, the longer we stay there, the heavier it feels, like a weight pressing down, reminding us that waiting isn’t the same as moving forward. Sooner or later, we begin to challenge our decision to wait.

    “In moments of uncertainty, we are often confronted with the disintegration of the persona we wear at work, in social settings, and even around our families—forcing us to reckon with the parts of ourselves that we’ve buried.”

    The Illusion of Control

    There’s a certain comfort in convincing ourselves that it’s the circumstances, not our choices, that are keeping us where we are, on a personal or collective consciousness level. We shrug and say “It wasn’t meant to happen,” or “It simply didn’t work out”, and for a moment it feels easier to let that uncertainty carry the weight of our lives. But by refusing to choose, we’re still making a choice. We’re choosing to forfeit control, to aimlessly move along and hope that life will somehow decide for us. That it’ll eventually pan out just the way it’s supposed to.

    Erik Erikson (1959) states that the transition from adolescence to adulthood represents the critical stage of the development of identity. He explains that adolescence is marked by the desire to fit in, to be validated by others, and to find our place in the world. But as we transition from childhood into adulthood, the fundamental challenge becomes moving from external validation to internal agency. It’s about not only taking, but accepting responsibility for the roles we consciously choose to play and the decisions we make. By refusing to make decisions, we defer our personal power and stunt our own growth. We remain stagnant in the adolescence of our psyche, unable to transition into adulthood and claim our role as authors of our own stories.

    “As we transition from childhood into adulthood, the fundamental challenge becomes  moving from external validation to internal agency. It’s about not only taking, but accepting responsibility for the roles we consciously choose to play and the decisions we make.”

    Taking responsibility for our choices is, in fact, a hallmark of maturity. It’s in adulthood that we learn that life is not about waiting for permission or the validation of others, but about stepping forward and taking action—even when the outcome is uncertain. The power to shape our lives rests within us, not in the structures we often seek to blame—be it the metaphorical “parent,” society, or government.

    Taking Back the Power to Choose

    Eventually, we reach a point where the fog becomes unbearable. We realise that the only way to find clarity is to create it yourself. I found that the act of choosing, of simply deciding to move, was a kind of revolt. It is about refusing to be defined by fear. And in that moment, I discovered that the power to shape my own life had been mine all along. It wasn’t about knowing the right answer—it was about being willing to step forward, even if I didn’t know where the path would lead.

    Some psychological research (Frankl, 2006) shows that people who take responsibility for their lives and their decisions are more likely to experience a sense of agency, control, and well-being. This aligns with the idea that responsibility is not just about making choices, but actively creating meaning in our lives. According to Viktor Frankl, in his book Man’s Search for Meaning, it is the ability to choose our attitude toward any circumstance that provides us with the ultimate freedom and purpose. In other words, even in the most uncertain and painful of moments, we have the power to choose our response—and in doing so, we reclaim ownership of our lives, stories and narratives.

    Beyond What We Know and Don’t Know

    As I began to wander the unknown in my own life, I had a chance to redefine myself, to let go of the narratives I had built around who I was and what I thought I needed. The fog was no longer something to fear, but a space where I could rewrite my story. In that space I found parts of myself that I had buried beneath layers of expectation and doubt. I discovered that the person I wanted to be wasn’t someone who waited for answers, but someone who created them.

    In today’s world, the journey toward taking responsibility is urgently needed. So many individuals, as evidenced in both personal and collective societal trends, have not successfully transitioned from adolescence to adulthood. They continue to rely on external validation, waiting for others to tell them what to do or what to believe. But in a rapidly changing world, the inability to take responsibility for one’s choices—whether in the products we consume, the political decisions we make, or the stories we choose to believe—will only lead to a disservice to ourselves and to the societies we inhabit. We must recognise that adulthood, true adulthood, requires the courage to take action, to own our decisions, and to shape our narratives.

    It takes courage to step into the unknown—to choose to act and not wait on the sidelines even when the outcome is uncertain. It’s a reminder that life isn’t meant to be lived in the comfort or safety of what we know, especially when there is so much at stake. It’s meant to be thoughtfully explored instead. Perhaps that’s the true purpose of it all: in wandering, no matter where we end up, we understand that we are the authors of our own lives, capable of building something truly meaningful out of nothing at all.

    By embracing the responsibility of choosing our path, both individually and collectively, we can shift from passive observers of our lives to active participants. The fog of uncertainty may never fully dissipate, but through our choices, we have the power to navigate it, turning it from a barrier into an opportunity for growth.

    “It takes courage to step into the unknown—to choose to act and not wait on the sidelines even when the outcome is uncertain. It’s a reminder that life isn’t meant to be lived in the comfort or safety of what we know, especially when there is so much at stake. It’s meant to be thoughtfully explored instead.”

    References:

    Carl Jung – Individuation

    • Jung, C.G., 1968. The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. 2nd ed. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
    • Jung, C.G., 1959. Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self. 2nd ed. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

    Erik Erikson – Psychosocial Development Theory

    • Erikson, E.H., 1950. Childhood and Society. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.
    • Erikson, E.H., 1980. Identity and the Life Cycle. New York: W.W. Norton & Company.

    Viktor Frankl – Man’s Search for Meaning

    • Frankl, V.E., 2006. Man’s Search for Meaning. Boston, MA: Beacon Press.
  • Learning to Let Go, Again and Again

    Learning to Let Go, Again and Again

    I’ve been made redundant about a dozen times. I’ve walked out of offices disheartened and frustrated, with a mind packed with things left unsaid. Each time, I left behind something I’d built—a project I poured my efforts into, a relationship that once mattered, an experience that no longer had a place—and I stepped out a little lighter, a little emptier. I’ve been reduced to a footnote in more organizations than I care to remember.

    Redundancy convinces you that you are disposable, that your presence was convenient but ultimately unnecessary. It isn’t just about the loss of a paycheck or a schedule shuffle—it peels back your sense of worth, leaving you questioning everything you once believed about your adequacy and capabilities. 

    After a while, though, I began to see redundancy differently. It became a strange invitation to look closer at what I was building, and at the stories I’d told myself about what really mattered in a career. When the decision to let me go was made, I had to ask: What was left of me after leaving this place?

    Put simply, redundancy forced me to step into something far more important: my own story. It provided me with something I hadn’t expected—space. Space to pause, reflect, and really look at what I wanted: the career I had been too afraid to pursue and quietly forgotten while sitting behind a desk from the hours of nine to five, helping somebody else get to where they wanted to be. 

    The Space Between Jobs

    Ironically, even as redundancy removes you from one life, it opens the door to another. Each time I found myself without a job, I navigated the quiet space between endings and beginnings. In those spaces, I saw things I’d ignored before. The years spent building other people’s dreams. The parts of myself I’d buried beneath my “professional” persona.

    Redundancy taught me a lot about accepting change by forcing me to question the narratives I’d built around success, stability, and self-worth. I began to understand that my worth wasn’t defined by any title or company. My worth was something I could carry with me, something rooted in who I am, rather than where I worked or what I spent my time there doing. 

    In those spaces between, I learned to see redundancy not as an end but as an opportunity to realign with my values, to question what I genuinely wanted. I had to redefine success in a way that wasn’t tied to a title or an office but to the work I found meaningful, the relationships I valued, and the skills I wanted to nurture.

    Most importantly, redundancy forced me to sit at a table where nobody else’s opinion mattered. The bottom line? I found that what I really, really wanted to do was write. So, now, that’s precisely what I do. Not because it’s safe and expected, but because it’s the one thing that feels true to who I am. It feels less like a choice and more like the only thing that was always meant to be. 

  • Jaded

    Jaded

    Jaded was my face before 

    you walked into our 

    favorite bakery. 

    I couldn’t ask the world 

    for more than to have you

    sitting across from me.  

    The cookies and tea 

    aren’t as sweet 

    as when you look at me.

    Months later, 

    I still wonder

    how I got so lucky.

    Honey, I can say in all honesty 

    that I haven’t loved any-

    body this tenderly.

  • [You who arrived]

    [You who arrived]

    To you who arrived

    and sat tenderly on

    the hills and valleys

    of my heart, I am writing.

    Here, there are forests to

    wonder and hours to waste

    enveloped in pleasure.

    I have come to know you

    as perfume knows memory,

    as windows knows light, and

    as streets know the quiet

    after midnight.

    I have known your skin

    and wore it better than

    I often wear mine.

    Even time forgets it is

    moving when you’re nearby.

    Even hands don’t

    know to hold after

    holding you.

    Even I pretend I know love,

    foolishly hoping you don’t

    notice that I have not been

    blessed with a joy this great.

    You, beloved, are all

    the light I have searched for,

    indefinitely. Open arms that

    welcome me sweetly when I

    am waiting, eagerly, to meet

    tenderness that is you.

    It is as though I have not dined

    in joy, in wonder, in bliss of this

    feeling before I entered your

    apartment, your mind, or life.

    I sit here afraid you

    may be the start

    of a real thrill

    to my heart.

    I sit here thinking

    what a joy it is,

    just to be next to you.

    I sit here thinking,

    and the more I think,

    I wonder where you

    have been every

    time I needed

    love like you to arrive.

  • Hello

    I am pleased
    you’re present too.

    I am tender again
    with you sat next to me
    at the coffee shop that
    we love so dearly.

    I think you’d forgotten
    or eaten that avo-chicken
    sandwich I’d grabbed
    you from the place
    around the corner.

    What may come,
    I am thrilled to see
    elegantly unfold before me.

    You may be the death of me again
    and I am welcoming you with open arms.

  • Body

    I don’t like milk 
    only with coffee
    and mainly in
    round cups that
    remind me
    of the direction
    my head spins in
    when you
    talk to me.

    My head,
    and heart
    retired when
    you almost
    kissed
    me
    in the street.

    My knees
    refuse to
    hold my body
    in protest that
    you
    should be
    holding me.

    I want my body
    next to your body
    with nobody
    around.

    Won’t you
    move into
    my heart?

    I want
    to forget
    everybody
    that rented it
    before you.

  • Birthday Poem

    This year marks my twenty-sixth lap 
    Around the whole sun
    The words you are here on the map 
    Of my existence reassure me 
    Because there are times I didn’t want to be 
    Where I’m from leaving the house means somebody somewhere will probably misgender me
    Making me wonder what it really means to be the pink or blue balloon at a birthday party 
    Much of my becoming comes from wanting 
    To be somewhere else where the grass is greener 
    Someone said the grass is greener where you water it 
    I replied, sometimes the fall takes too long to come 
    Sometimes seasons change in a day and in a minute I am 
    Somewhere underwater 
    Forgetting how to walk on it instead 
    Some days there is bliss deep as the Atlantic 
    I learned much of what we call happiness is in the smaller things:
    A coffee with a friend, the sun on your face, your mother laughing, or the moment after finishing a really good book
    I remember when it comes to not hold onto it 
    That letting go means my hands are open 
    To receiving more love, more light, and more 
    Of everything good this world will offer me 
    That sometimes the highest highs 
    Come after a dip in the road 
    Of where I’m going 
    That getting there is less important 
    Than the company I have in 
    The passenger seat 
    Before I leave this world, I want to feel
    Everything there is to feel here 
    Break my heart a dozen times 
    Just to undo the breaking 
    Because I know there is blessing 
    In the wreckage and patience 
    In the building 
    I hope I find a way to quit smoking 
    I hope the living gives me more 
    Of a rush or helps me boost 
    My mood on days I’m extra moody 
    I hope I forget how to make talk small 
    I hope I keep hoping things will 
    Fall into place the way I do 
    Every time I blow out the candles.

  • Guava Juice

    Guava Juice

    The refrigerator yawns

    its big, white mouth;

    inside, the guava juice is

    thick as blood.

    Sale stickers

    peel like skin.

    I know his small economies;

    he hoards and hoards and

    worships what he hoards;

    his love comes discounted too.

    We share a surname,

    this man and I;

    but our hearts

    don’t feel the same.

    He runs his mouth

    like a faucet

    spilling

    God’s name like

    loose change.

    While other men do lie,

    Daddy, you seem to

    be the greatest.

    Sometimes,

    I wonder

    if manhood

    stood on aisles,

    marked down

    and discounted,

    if you would

    spare a dime.

  • Love, Anyway

    Love, Anyway

    It was simple.

    Omar would marry Salaam. Nour would marry Jude. Two weddings, one weekend, and four people who previously couldn’t be themselves in a Middle Eastern context would have the perfect cover story that would allow them to lead semi-normal, protected lives.

    “It’s like a rom-com,” Salaam said, stirring sugar into her coffee at the café overlooking Petra’s hills and valleys.

    “Except nobody ends up with who the audience expects.”

    Jude laughed. She’d been calling herself Jude since college, but here in Wadi Musa, surrounded by her grandmother’s neighbors and her father’s business partners, she was Nujoud again. The name felt heavy on her tongue like it almost didn’t fit.

    “More like a comedy,” Nour muttered, checking his phone for the hundredth time that morning. “My mother wants a bigger venue to invite half of Irbid and all of my extended family, much of which I can’t stand at all.”

    Omar reached across the table and squeezed Nour’s hand briefly before pulling away. Public displays of affection between males brought attention they couldn’t afford, even if platonic. Just a few weeks ago, a friend had been arrested for being seen with his partner in a public park, which was a gruesome reminder of how unsafe their situation was.

    Nour had previously been hounded by his father about his light, flamboyant attire and had slurs thrown at him. It wasn’t easy molding into what society deemed normal.

    “Humor her. The bigger the wedding, the more legitimate it looks,” Omar replied.

    The four of them had met at a party in the city years and ago. Not the kind of party their parents would usually know about or approve of at all. The kind where you could hold hands with whoever made your heart beat out of your chest, where you could dance without thinking about the space between bodies, where being yourself didn’t have to be a revolution. Back then, Jude had been telling someone about her family’s hotel in Petra when Salaam interrupted to say she’d always wanted to see the Siq at sunset. Nour and Omar were already inseparable, finishing each other’s sentences and exchanging looks that lasted too long. When the night was over, they had figured it out. The solution to their impossible problem.

    “Your grandmother would love me,” Nour had said to Jude. “I’m almost a doctor.”

    “Omar’s father would think I’m wife-y material,” Salaam had added. “English degree, comes from a comfortable family, wants children eventually.”

    The last part wasn’t even a lie. Salaam did want children. She wanted to raise them with someone who loved her, in a house filled with books and laughter. She wanted to raise them on the idea that love comes in many forms. But she just couldn’t have that life with Jude. Not openly, at least. Not until this arrangement was on the table.

    Now, six months later, at the café where Jude had breakfast every morning as a child, the plan felt both more real and more surreal than ever.

    ________________________________________________________________________________________

    “I brought the rings,” Nour said, sliding a small, velvet box across the table. “My cousin knows someone that owns a jewelry store somewhere in the city. Got us a deal.”

    Jude cracked the box open. Four gold bands, traditional and simple. Just right.

    “What about afterward?” Jude asked. “I mean, the weddings are one thing. But then what? We all just… live this for good?”

    It was the question none of them wanted to ask.

    The plan resolved their immediate worries. Pressure from their families, bottomless questions on why they haven’t yet married, and endless attempts at introductions with suitable suitors.

    “Maybe we don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Salaam said. She looked around the café, at the tourists with their cameras, at local men playing backgammon and sipping black tea, at everybody melting into the background almost immediately.

    “Maybe we should take it one day at a time,” Salaam continued.

    Omar nodded.

    “My sister keeps bugging me about raising her nieces and nephews. I told her Allah knows better when that would happen.” He added.

    “Very diplomatic,” Nour said.

    “What did you tell your mom about the honeymoon, Jude?” Nour continued.

    “That we want to explore Jordan first before going abroad. Show Omar the real Petra, not the phony tourist sites.” She teased. “She thinks it’s romantic.”

    The irony wasn’t lost on any of them. Jude had been showing people the “real” Petra almost her entire life, first as a child trailing behind her father as he led tour groups, then as a pre-teen and young adult while working summers at the family hotel, and now as a graduate student writing her thesis on tourism and cultural preservation in archaeological sites.  

    But this time would be different. She would be showing someone she loved around. Even if that someone was technically her beard, and even if the love wasn’t the kind that would be celebrated at weddings.

    “Here’s a thought,” Jude said suddenly.

    “For the honeymoon, I mean. We could go to Wadi Rum. Camp in the desert as couples. Be ourselves for a minute.” She continued.

    Nour and Omar exchanged looks.

    “That could work,” Omar said slowly.

    “We could say we wanted to double-date. Keep things halal.” He continued.

    “Halal,” Salaam repeated, tasting the word as she enunciated it.

    In a week, she’d be married to her best friend while in love with someone else entirely. But somehow, the idea of the four of them together in this performance felt like the most honest thing she could imagine.

    ________________________________________________________________________________________

    The wedding preparations consumed the coming three weeks.

    Jude’s grandma emerged from what had been a decade-long depression following her husband’s passing, suddenly revived by the prospect of seeing her granddaughter married. She threw herself into planning with the spirit of someone making up for lost time.

    “The roses should be pink, not red,” she declared.

    “Red is too passionate for a first marriage. Pink is hopeful.” She continued.

    Jude held back the urge to point out that passion might actually be relevant to a marriage, even given the background. Instead, she nodded and made mental notes about the flowers.

    Salaam arrived three days before the wedding. She impressed Jude’s father immediately. Had questions about the business and listened to his stories about the early days of tourism in Petra. She helped out in the kitchen without being asked and complimented Jude’s aunties and their cooking with just the right amount of enthusiasm.

    “I really like Salaam,” Jude’s cousin whispered at dinner.

    “She looks at you like you hung the moon.” She continued.

    That comment hit Jude unexpectedly hard. Because Salaam did look at her that way sometimes. When she thought no one was watching, when they were alone making wedding arrangements, when she laughed at Jude’s comments about the ridiculous situation. There were moments when the line between performance and reality blurred so much that Jude forgot which side they were supposed to be on.

    Salaam and Omar’s wedding was scheduled for the day after her and Nour’s. The plan was that all four of them would attend both ceremonies, playing the role of close friends who had found love around the same time. That this coincidence would be a subject of discussion for their families to talk about for years afterward.

    The night before her wedding, Jude couldn’t sleep. She walked out onto the hotel terrace that overlooked the valley, a gust of familiar jasmine wind welcoming her. Petra looked different at night, more like the ancient city it had once been as opposed to the tourist attraction that it had become.

    “Can’t sleep either?”

    She turned to find Salaam standing in the doorway.

    “Just thinking,” Jude said.

    Salaam joined her at the railing. “About tomorrow?”

    “About everything. This whole thing we’re doing… sometimes I wonder if we’re making the right choices or just cowardly ignoring the reality of our situations.”

    “Can’t we be both?”

    They stood in silence for a minute. In twelve hours, they’d be married. In forty-eight, they’d be on their honeymoon with their respective partners. In a year, or five years, or ten, they’d still be living this convenient, intricate lie.

    “Salaam,” Jude said quietly.

    “Can I tell you something?” She continued.

    “Of course.” Salaam replied.

    “Sometimes I wish…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

    “Never mind. It’s not fair.” She continued.

    “What’s not fair?” 

    Jude was quiet for so long that Salaam thought she wasn’t going to respond at all.

    “Sometimes I wish we could just be normal. That we could want what our families want us to want. That tomorrow could be real.”

    Salaam’s heart winced, “Jude…”

    “I know. I know it’s not how we feel. I know we’re doing this for the right reasons. But sometimes I look at couples who get to love each other openly, who get to build a life together without all these complications, and I’m just… tired. Tired of all the pretending.”

    “Even the pretending we’re choosing to do?” Salaam replied.

    Jude laughed, but it sounded sad. “Especially that. Because at least the other pretending is something that’s being done to us. This is something we’re doing to ourselves.”

    Salaam reached for Jude’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Jude, look at me.”

    Jude turned, and in the soft light, Salaam could see her tears lace her face.

    “What we’re doing tomorrow, it’s not pretending. We do love Nour and Omar. Just because it’s not romantic doesn’t make it less real. And what we’re building is a space where all four of us are protected. Yeah, it’s not the life we dreamed of when we were little, but it’s still a good life.”

    Jude nodded, sniffling. “You’re right. I just… I see the way Nour and Omar look at each other sometimes. And I want that. Not with them, obviously, but… I want someone to look at me like I’m their entire world. Openly, not behind closed doors and in crippling fear of getting caught.”

    “You will,” Salaam said firmly. “Maybe not here, maybe not now, but someday. We all will. This isn’t our ending, Jude. This is just our beginning.”

    ________________________________________________________________________________________

    The wedding was beautiful.

    Jude wore her grandma’s dress, altered to fit her frame but still recognizably the same gown that had been worn at the first wedding celebration held at this very hotel almost sixty years ago. Salaam wore a simple yellow dress that brought out her eyes and made her look, as Jude’s father said, “like a princess Diana.”

    The ceremony itself was small with only immediate family and close friends. But the reception filled the hotel’s common area, with relatives, business associates, and neighbors from throughout Wadi Musa. The dabke lasted until nearly midnight, with even the oldest guests joining the traditional line dances. Omar stayed near Nour, fulfilling the role of the groom’s best friend who was soon to also be wed. Everybody danced with elderly aunts and complimented the food and posed for pictures with convincing smiles. Everything seemed normal. Except it wasn’t all about appearances.

    During the cake cutting, Salaam caught Omar’s eye across the room. He was watching Nour dance with one of Jude’s cousins, and the longing in his expression was so raw it pierced his heart and soul. Tomorrow, she realized. Tomorrow Omar would be her husband, at least on paper. Tomorrow they’d get their moment.

    “What’s on your mind?” Jude asked, almost tracking her stare.

    “Just… all of it. How strange this all is. How good.”

    Jude smiled. “My father’s been crying on and off all night. Happy tears, I think.”

    “He told me earlier that seeing me married was the one thing he wanted before he got too old to enjoy it. Said he can now rest easy knowing I’ll be taken care of.”

    “And you will be. Just not the way he thinks.”

    “Does that bother you?”

    Salaam considered it. “A little. I don’t like lying to people I care about. But I like the alternative even less.”

    ________________________________________________________________________________________

    Later, when the guests headed home and the family had retired to their rooms, the four of them sat on the terrace sharing a bottle of champagne that Nour had smuggled in.

    “One down, one to go,” Omar said, raising his glass.

    “To love,” Nour added.

    “To family and friendship,” Salaam said.

    “To everything good,” Jude finished.

    Then, glasses clinked and four people had found a way to be honestly dishonest with the sole intention of protecting one another and leading loving lives.

    ________________________________________________________________________________________

    Salaam and Omar’s wedding in the capital, Amman was smaller but no less emotional. Omar’s mother cried through the entire ceremony, overcome with joy at seeing her oldest son finally settled. Nour’s extended family turned out in force, filling the room with loud spirits and even louder laughter and enough food to feed half the city.

    Salaam and Omar played their parts just right, the newlywed couple inspired through friends to find love of their own. They slow danced together, Omar’s hand on Salaam’s waist, both moving carefully through the motions of heterosexual romance.

    “You’re a good dancer,” Salaam commented.

    “My mother made me take lessons when I was twelve. Said every proper young lad should know how to.”

    “Mine too,” Salaam smiled.

    When the bouquet was tossed, Jude deliberately missed the flowers, allowing one of Omar’s single cousins to catch them instead. But when no one was looking, she picked a fallen rose from the ground and tucked it behind Salaam’s ear.

    “What’s that for?” Salaam asked.

    “Because you look beautiful tonight. Because you’re my wife now, whether everybody knows it or not. Because I adore you.”

    It was such a small gesture, but it imprinted on Salaam’s heart. The line between performance and reality was getting thinner and thinner every day.

    ________________________________________________________________________________________

    Wadi Rum was exactly what they needed. They rented a traditional Bedouin camp for a week, two dome tents arranged around a central fire, with the desert stretching ahead in every direction. Soon, all of them huddled around the bonfire and released sighs of relief that the performance was through.

    “That’s it. It was really that simple all along.”

    For the first time in months, they could unwind. Nour and Omar held hands openly, stealing kisses when they thought the others weren’t looking. Salaam and Jude ditched their roles as newlyweds, falling back into the comfortable friendship that had brought them together in the first place.

    On the third night, as they sat around the fire, Nour asked the question they’d all been avoiding.

    “So what happens now? When we get back to our real lives?”

    “We keep doing what we’re doing,” Jude said. 

    “But for how long?” Omar pressed.

    “Do we stay married forever? Do we get divorced eventually? Do we have kids?”

    It was Salaam who answered. “I think we take it as it comes. Maybe we’ll move somewhere more accepting. Maybe we’ll find a way to expand this arrangement. Or maybe we’ll grow old together, all four of us, and our grandchildren will call us all grandma and grandpa and never know which is which.”

    “I like that last option,” Omar hesitated.

    “Me too,” Salaam agreed.

    They sat in comfortable silence as the bonfire faded.

    “I have something to confess,” Omar said suddenly. “My mother… she’s been asking about grandchildren. A lot. And I may have told her that we’ve been trying…”

    “Omar,” Nour said, almost warning.

    “Please let me finish. I told her we’ve been trying, and that if it’s God’s will, it will happen in time. But what if… what if it was God’s will? What if Salaam and Jude wanted to have children, and we could make that happen?”

    Salaam felt her heart drop to her gut. “What are you saying?”

    “I’m saying maybe this arrangement could be more than just cover. Maybe we could actually build a family. Have children with loving parents. With the cover of biological parenthood on our side.”

    “That’s…” Jude started, then stopped.

    “That’s actually not a terrible idea.”

    “It’s completely insane,” Nour said. But he was smiling.

    Salaam looked around at these three people who had become her chosen family, her partners in the elaborate scheme of acceptable love. The idea was insane. It was also, somehow, making sense to everybody.

    “We’d have to be so careful, though,” she said.

    “The timing, the story we tell, making sure everything looks natural.” She continued.

    “But it could work,” Jude said, and Salaam could hear the hope in her voice.

    “It could work,” Salaam agreed.

    ________________________________________________________________________________________

    Months later, Salaam stood in the bathroom of her and Omar’s apartment staring at two lines on a pregnancy test. Through the thin walls, she could hear Jude laughing at the television, Nour and Omar discussing medical residency applications at the kitchen table.

    Jude moved to Amman after the wedding, officially to be closer to her husband’s work but really because living separate from Salaam started to feel horrible. They’d found a large apartment building where all four of them could live comfortably as neighbors. Each couple had lived in their own apartment but rarely were the four of them not together in one or the other.

    The pregnancy had happened faster than any of them expected. One awkward but determined night three months ago, strange and somehow still meaningful. Omar had been gentle and nervous. Salaam had been grateful for the way he treated her body like something precious he was borrowing just to return.

    Now, looking at the test, she felt intense emotions. Joy, because she’d wanted this for almost too long. Fear, because raising a child in their situation would require even more caution than they were already taking on. And something else, something she hadn’t expected. It was a stubborn, intense protectiveness that mothers have over their children.

    A knock at the bathroom door interrupted her thoughts.

    “Salaam? Everything okay?” Jude’s said, concerned.

    Salaam opened the door, holding up the test. Jude face went through a series of expressions. Surprise, denial, and then a smile so wide it could swallow the Dead Sea.

    “Oh my God,” she whispered.

    “Oh my God, we’re having a baby.”

    It didn’t matter who this child belonged to. It would be raised by four people who had chosen each other, who had built something beautiful out of the constraints of an unaccepting world and circumstances not in their favor.

    Salaam nodded, sudden tears flooding her vision. “We’re having a baby.”

    Jude pulled her into a hug, and they stood there in the bathroom doorway, two women who had married two men for all the wrong reasons that somehow found the right one along the way. From the kitchen came the sound of chairs scraping, footsteps approaching.

    “Is everything alright?” Nour’s voice, followed by Omar’s worried face behind him.

    Salaam held up the test again, watching as it dawned on them simultaneously.

    Omar’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Really?”

    “Really.” She replied.

    And then all four of them were celebrating and laughing and crying in a small apartment, planning for a future that would be complicated and beautiful and theirs.

    ________________________________________________________________________________________

    Three years later, Jude stood on the terrace of her family’s hotel in Petra, watching Salaam chase their daughter through the gardens. Janna was almost two now. With bundles of dark curls and bottomless curiosity about almost everything. Who called Salaam “Mama,” Jude “Aunty Jude,” Omar “Baba,” and Nour “Ammo Nour.”

    The plan had worked better than any of them had dared hope. To their families and the world outside of them, they were two couples who had become best friends, who shared everything from holidays to childcare duties. Their parents focused on Janna, never questioning the unusual closeness of her chosen family.

    Beneath the charade, they had built something unprecedented. Perhaps a romance with more protagonists than any traditional narrative could contain. Nour had gotten into a pediatric residency program in Amman. Omar was specializing in psychiatry, with a particular interest in family therapy. Salaam was working on her master’s degree in social work. And Jude had started teaching at a local university, often commuting between Amman and Petra to see her parents. Omar, Nour, and Salaam would often join.

    “She’s going to sleep well tonight,” Salaam said, sinking into the chair beside Jude as Janna finally tired herself out and curled up on the garden swing for a short nap.

    “All that running around will do that,” Jude agreed. “My dad wants to start teaching her about the archaeology sites. Says she’s the perfect age to start learning about her heritage.”

    “What do you think?”

    Salaam considered this. “I think I want her to know where she comes from. Family history, tradition and culture, and the complicated background that we’ve given her. Everything she could possibly absorb while she’s young.”

    “She’ll have questions eventually. On how her family is different.”

    “And we’ll answer them honestly. Age-appropriately, but honestly.”

    They sat in comfortably, watching their daughter sleep in the afternoon sun.

    “Do you ever regret it?” Jude asked quietly. “All of this?”

    Salaam thought about the question seriously. There were things she regretted. But this life they’d built together, this family they’d chosen and created and fought for?

    “No,” she said firmly. “None of it.”

    Jude smiled, reaching over to hug Salaam under her arm. “Me neither.”

    In the distance, Janna stirred in her sleep, mumbling something that sounded like “Baba story”—her regular requests for one of Omar’s elaborate bedtime tales about princesses and clever foxes and families who loved each other in all sorts of ways.
    Tonight, Salaam thought, she’d ask him to tell the one about the four friends who went to Petra and found exactly what they were looking for, even though it wasn’t what they thought they wanted. It was Janna’s favorite, though she didn’t yet know it was also her origin story.

    The sun was beginning to set, the rose-red stones turned gold and amber. Soon, Nour and Omar would arrive from Amman to join everybody for dinner. They’d sharing stories from their week, Jude’s father would tell and re-tell stories about Al Anbaat, and everything would seem to be okay for a moment. It wasn’t the life any of them had imagined when they were younger. But it was a good life. Built on love in all its forms, in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

    And sometimes, Salaam thought as she watched her daughter sleep, that was more than enough.

  • Water

    Water

    The moral of the story is this:

    The less you’re around, the more you fill my mind.
    The harder I try to want you less, the less I want anyone else.
    The closer my heart leans in your direction, the further I am from sleep.
    The more I try to let you go, the less connected I am to myself.
    The more your name is mentioned, the softer my heart becomes.

    You’re like water—I can’t tell where you end and the world begins.

  • When Will the Maple Trees Bloom?

    When Will the Maple Trees Bloom?

    My oldest dream slips
    from beneath me.

    The heaven I chased
    since childhood like
    a pup would endlessly
    chase its own tail
    now trails far behind.

    Homesick for maple,
    for pucks and sticks
    tossed behind by boys
    from the neighborhood
    on a water breaks
    left outside at the
    cul-de-sac.

    We played ball, too,
    when we were young
    like children often do.

    I still hear the bounce,
    the swoosh, and the
    soggy shoes because
    even when it poured
    we played and played
    like children often do.

    Hope is a terrible thing
    that pierces through my soul;
    almost like that cold gush of water
    right after a run under the sun,
    with stomach emptied from
    everything but joy. Pure,
    young joy naive enough to
    believe it may be for good.

    There sits a bitter taste in
    my throat, my tongue that
    knows not to mention how
    I often toss and turn thinking
    how deflated it is here;

    How squirrels don’t mount trees;
    How trees don’t look as green;
    How everybody and everything
    isn’t quite as happy. I have not
    known dearth like that I have
    come to know it here.

    I had been hungry for almost
    a decade. For years I have not
    dined properly, only on crumbs and
    left-overs of childhood memories.

    For years I have been far from home,
    and now, before I take humble steps
    towards it again, I am afraid. I am afraid
    the rug might be pulled out from under me.

    Wouldn’t that be a wretched thing? To foolishly
    believe I could have it all happen again
    only for it to really happen in dreams.