I thought I had hit the jackpot, like I'd finally won the lottery, when I met Julian. He was striking—dark hair, olive skin, a real Mediterranean-style heartthrob. Maybe I have low self-esteem, because I never actually dreamed he'd look twice at me. We met in a French language certification course. I was a senior finishing up my linguistics degree, and he was an economist from Morocco working in New York on a corporate contract. As fate would have it, we ended up sitting next to each other in class, and after it ended, he asked if he could walk me home.
I didn't play hard to get. In fact, I was bold enough to invite him in for a cup of tea. I wanted to show him off to my mother, who was always lamenting that I'd end up an old maid—even though there was no reason for it. I might not be a supermodel, but I know my worth and I've never lacked for suitors.
My mother was the picture of politeness while Julian was there, but the moment the door closed behind him, she threw a fit.
"Emily, have you lost your mind? He's Muslim! There is an unbridgeable gap between you two. Do you have any idea what those traditions are like? It's pure patriarchy. A Moroccan! What were you thinking, picking up someone like that and bringing him into my house? Did you think I'd just fall for those beautiful eyes of his?"
"Mom, he's nothing like what you're imagining," I argued, indignant. "Julian's lived in the States for five years. He follows our laws, our way of life."
"I didn't raise you by myself without a husband just to watch you run off to some desert! I don't want to see him here again. Do you understand me?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mom! I've seen him exactly once and you've already got me walking down the aisle," I sighed. "And besides, it's not like I need your permission to marry someone. I'm an adult, thank God. I can handle my own life!"
I was genuinely angry. But I was also curious to see if things would actually go anywhere with Julian. I certainly hoped they would. Dating a foreigner! It's every girl's dream to experience something exotic. I was twenty-four and I'd never even been out of the country. What if he asked me to marry him? I'd have to move there. Julian had mentioned his New York contract was up in six months and he didn't plan on staying in the States.
I was daydreaming as if I were already wearing his ring...
***
But soon enough, that's exactly where I found myself. Much to my mother's fury, Julian and I started dating seriously. He fell for me with all the intensity of a romantic lead, and I felt the same way. He was passionate, and he was nothing like the tyrant my mother had conjured up in her head. On the contrary, I saw how much respect he had for me. He treated me like a queen. Honestly, who wouldn't love that?
"The night is young!" my mother would hiss. "Soon enough he'll show his true colors. You'll be crying yourself to sleep over him."
Nevertheless, things progressed. Julian proposed, and I accepted with pure joy.
"Emily, you realize we'll be living in my home country? I won't be staying in America. My family is there."
"Of course, honey. I'd go anywhere just to be with you!" I was walking on air. My mother cried every day. My friends were green with envy. I even signed up for Arabic lessons—suddenly, I was obsessed with everything involving my fiancé's culture. All I could think about was our future life together...
"My love, I have a wonderful idea," Julian said one day. "My sister is getting married in two weeks. It's the perfect excuse to go to Morocco. I can introduce you to my relatives and show you the country where you'll be living. What do you think?"
As if I'd say no! I was looking forward to an exotic trip with the man I loved. What more could a girl ask for?
***
Leaving the airport in Casablanca, I felt like I'd stepped into another dimension. Women were wrapped in hijabs that hid everything but their eyes, and the men wore clothes that looked completely foreign to my Western eyes. They spoke a language I couldn't understand. The heat was stifling, and everywhere I looked there were palm trees and stunning shrubs with massive, vibrant flowers.
"Oh, it's beautiful here! Let's go for a walk through the city."
"We don't have time, unfortunately," Julian said distractedly. "Wait for me in the car, I'll be right back."
He ushered me into a taxi and hurried off. The driver stared at me incessantly, and I felt a wave of relief when my fiancé returned.
"Put this on." He expertly wrapped my face and shoulders in a beautiful black scarf with an intricate pattern. Within minutes, I felt like I was going to faint from the heat. The moment we stepped out of the car, I gratefully yanked the wretched thing off my head. "God, you can't breathe in this rag! How do women wear these?"
Julian whipped around to face me. He looked absolutely livid. I didn't understand why.
"That is not a 'rag'!" he said, his voice bordering on harsh. "The hijab is a vital part of a Muslim woman's life. Put it back on immediately."
"Look, I'm sorry," I said. "It just seems ridiculous to force a woman to wear that in this heat. It's absurd!"
"For Muslim women, following the rules of the hijab is a matter of honor," Julian explained. "It protects a woman from the lecherous gazes of men. I come from a very religious family; for us, honoring tradition is sacred. You have to remember: the principles and rules here are quite strict. If you mock Islamic culture, it's the same to me as if you were mocking my mother."
"Are you saying I have to wear this scarf the entire time I'm in your country? Why didn't you warn me about this beforehand? I might have thought twice about coming..."
Julian looked taken searches:
"It never even occurred to me to warn you. To me, it seemed obvious and natural."
He put his arms around me and kissed me. I calmed down. Fine, I thought. I'll be on my best behavior.
***
We arrived at the small town where Julian's parents lived after midnight. Everyone was asleep except for his mother. She had stayed up for us, but her greeting was icy. It hurt—I had prepared myself for a warm welcome. Honestly, the woman was just plain rude. She only spoke to her son, and only in Arabic. When she did address me in French, she didn't ask me a single thing; she simply told me it was time for bed.
"Goodnight," Julian said, heading for the door. I started to follow him. But then, the unthinkable happened. "No, you stay here. I'm staying at my uncle's house. In our culture, it isn't proper for a man and woman to sleep under the same roof before the wedding," he explained.
My legs felt weak. I had been so looking forward to the moment we'd be alone. I wanted him to hold me, to comfort me. Instead, I was being left with this cold woman who clearly had no intention of bonding with me. And I was a guest in her home! Not just a guest—her son's fiancée.
***
The next day, I didn't get to see Julian at all. Over the following days, I only caught glimpses of him from a distance. I wasn't prepared for this kind of "romantic" getaway, and I wanted to cry from the disappointment. My potential mother-in-law didn't leave my side for a second—neither did her four daughters. The six of us did everything together: went to the market, prepped the house for the wedding, worked in the kitchen. I started to feel like they were going to follow me into the bathroom next. Julian's sisters were quiet and friendly enough, but his mother grew increasingly hostile. I had no idea what I'd done to offend her so much.
On the third night, as I was getting ready for bed, she finally asked me:
"How could your mother let you travel alone like this? Was she so desperate to get her daughter out of the house? Or were there other reasons?"
I barely bit back a sharp, nasty retort. I choked back my tears, too—I wasn't going to give this woman the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I didn't see my fiancé again until his sister's wedding. He arrived with the other guests but didn't come near me; he only smiled from across the room. Confused and desperate, I ran over to give him a hug—I had missed him so much! But he grabbed my arm roughly and, in a blind rage, led me out into the garden.
"Emily, what do you think you're doing?" he yelled. "Do you want to bring trouble down on my head? My entire family is already gossiping about you. Understand this: you cannot act the way you do in America. The customs here are different. Not only did my mother notice how shamelessly you expected to spend the night with me, but now you're throwing yourself at me in front of strangers!" As he spoke, he actually wiped his forehead, clearly picturing the "horrible" scene of me hugging him.
"What do you mean 'throwing myself' at you?" I shouted back, furious. "And what 'strangers'? This is your family!"
"But it isn't yours!" he snapped. "Once we're married, I will be your only family. Remember that!"
"Well, you'd better remember something too!" I said, shaking with rage. "I am never going to be your wife. Never! Take me to the airport right now."
"But... you can't do this to me," Julian stammered, looking lost.
"I can! And I am! Go find yourself another bride and leave me out of it!"
A few hours later, I was on a plane back to New York. It was crystal clear to me: I could never live by their rules.
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