Zakia looked at the old man in front of her in amazement. "What do you mean nail polish is forbidden? Where does it say that?" The man merely shook his head at her ignorance and insisted, once again, that she should not be wearing nail polish. "I am not married and I am trying to look nice to catch a husband, " she responded in as gentle a manner as she could muster. "Is lipstick forbidden too?" The man gave her a pitying look and walked away from the counter where Zakia was working to pay for his medication.
Zakia couldn't understand such thinking. Even her classmate, Hanae, had supported this ridiculous notion when she relayed her story about the nail polish statement that night in class. "I believe you are not supposed to wear nail polish when you pray" Hanae mused. "It does say something in the Koran about the need for your hands to be clean." Zakia shook her head in frustration. "Clean, yes, but nail polish does not make your hands dirty," she retorted. It was one thing to hear such nonsense from an old man in the small town where she worked as a pharmacist. It was quite astonishing to hear the same thinking from a young woman in a city of 2 million people! Zakia felt a little depressed as her mind drifted to her desire to find a husband. She was sure the her future husband man would be more open-minded but she was certainly having a hard time locating him.
Meanwhile, Hanae turned to the classmate to her right, a very nice older man with a gentle manner. Rafik knew that Hanae and their teacher shared a taxi after class and he mentioned to her that he had a car and could drive them both home. Hanae demurred because although they had been in class together for a couple of months now, she really didn't know Rafik. Getting in a car with him would be unacceptable, even if their teacher was there as well. She had no absolutely no doubt about this.
Outside stood a squat middle-aged woman asking all the passersby for a handout. She spied a stranger walking on the other side of the street and hurried after her. 'Madame! Madame!" she shouted as she caught up with the foreigner. She held out her hand and offered her best smile. The stranger continued to walk but the woman grabbed her arm and pleaded for some change. The stranger tried to get away but the woman did not relent. Her tattooed chin quivered as she insisted that some money be handed over.
A little bit further down the boulevard, during an off hour in a popular cafe, sat an older man and a very young woman. They spoke French to one another rather than Arabic as they sat at a corner table. He drank coffee and smoked Marlboros. She drank a milkshake and sat on her hands. Over and over he asked her how she was. She giggled and cast her eyes downward. "Ca va," she replied in a high sweet voice, "ca va." The man looked her up and down as he tapped his cell phone that sat between them on the table. The young woman watched his every move with a nervous anticipation.
Zakia couldn't understand such thinking. Even her classmate, Hanae, had supported this ridiculous notion when she relayed her story about the nail polish statement that night in class. "I believe you are not supposed to wear nail polish when you pray" Hanae mused. "It does say something in the Koran about the need for your hands to be clean." Zakia shook her head in frustration. "Clean, yes, but nail polish does not make your hands dirty," she retorted. It was one thing to hear such nonsense from an old man in the small town where she worked as a pharmacist. It was quite astonishing to hear the same thinking from a young woman in a city of 2 million people! Zakia felt a little depressed as her mind drifted to her desire to find a husband. She was sure the her future husband man would be more open-minded but she was certainly having a hard time locating him.
Meanwhile, Hanae turned to the classmate to her right, a very nice older man with a gentle manner. Rafik knew that Hanae and their teacher shared a taxi after class and he mentioned to her that he had a car and could drive them both home. Hanae demurred because although they had been in class together for a couple of months now, she really didn't know Rafik. Getting in a car with him would be unacceptable, even if their teacher was there as well. She had no absolutely no doubt about this.
Outside stood a squat middle-aged woman asking all the passersby for a handout. She spied a stranger walking on the other side of the street and hurried after her. 'Madame! Madame!" she shouted as she caught up with the foreigner. She held out her hand and offered her best smile. The stranger continued to walk but the woman grabbed her arm and pleaded for some change. The stranger tried to get away but the woman did not relent. Her tattooed chin quivered as she insisted that some money be handed over.
A little bit further down the boulevard, during an off hour in a popular cafe, sat an older man and a very young woman. They spoke French to one another rather than Arabic as they sat at a corner table. He drank coffee and smoked Marlboros. She drank a milkshake and sat on her hands. Over and over he asked her how she was. She giggled and cast her eyes downward. "Ca va," she replied in a high sweet voice, "ca va." The man looked her up and down as he tapped his cell phone that sat between them on the table. The young woman watched his every move with a nervous anticipation.
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