It was all my fault.
I was the one carrying a camera the size of a small child. I was the one looking sternly across the valley. I was the one standing at the edge of a hill with a hand over my eyes, like a spy assaying the terrain, descrying the horizon.
Little did I know that, across the way were a pair of eyes — or binoculars — watching me.
My aunt’s husband had suggested that I not take pictures of of the hills opposite us because a military compound was nestled somewhere there.
I might not have taken any pictures at all, in fact, if I hadn’t held the camera in one hand and slammed the locked car door with the other. Oh, well, I figured. Maybe I’ll photograph my aunt in her shimmering grey scarf, the white-scratched denim of the sky, the deserted bee farm or the straw-like thistles.
Then, a pickup truck pulled up next to my aunt and me. Two men in fatigues and military berets dismounted.
My aunt’s husband was further down the hill. Intuition said he’d be driving up right now.
As the men approached us, my aunt mumbled to “hide it.” But unless I was going to eat it — which would have been hard given its dimensions — there was no where to put the thing. My bag was in the car, and trees are never there when you need them. (It’s not “a tree in need is a tree indeed.”) Besides, it was no use. They’d seen it already.
The leading officer addressed us sternly but genially, “Walking around and photographing this area are strictly prohibited.” Can’t you see all the invisible signage?
“Like, we’re not allowed to be here at all?” My aunt asked.
Just then, her husband joined us as if on cue. Instantly, all their dealings were with him.
Meanwhile, we sat in the car, waiting.
They asked a few questions and he pointed about, chewed the edge of his lip and made his listening face.
My aunt rolled down her window. The leading officer asked, “Are these your girls?” but a part of me heard, “Are these your sheep?” After all, my camera and its doings, our feet and their ambling — all were somehow the sole responsibility of my aunt’s husband. He was the shepherd, we his flock. If we strayed, he’d be held accountable.
Maybe the officers do this out of a deference for women, because women ought to be given the benefit of the doubt, addressed with delicacy. Maybe they do it for fear of offending tribesmen who may consider a reprimand to “their hurma (woman)” effrontery, as if they — the husbands, brothers, fathers and cousins — were bypassed in the social hierarchy. Maybe the officers do it because they hold women to a different (more puerile) standard.
Because I couldn’t make up my mind as to why the officers act the way they do, I also couldn’t tell if I should feel slighted or honored.
My aunt’s husband liaised between us. He gave them our IDs, and my aunt and I waited for the final verdict.
In the rearview mirror, we saw that reinforcements were sent in. (Apparently, we weren’t going down easy.) Now they were six. Two for every one of us.
My aunt’s husband came to my window. “They want you to show them the pictures.”
I previewed the pictures just in case — yup — there were pictures of me without hijab. In fact, I could only show the soldier two pictures — the only two I’d taken on site — one of which was a closeup of my aunt.
“I can’t show the rest; they’re without hijab.”
He nodded trustfully, and a moment’s relief overtook me as I realized that, in this Muslim-majority context, no further explanation was needed.
More talking between men, then “please step out of the car.”
Most of the soldiers were lined up against their pickup truck, just watching us.
In a scene akin to one in Pride and Prejudice, my aunt and I took a turn around the level hilltop and weathered a half-dozen Darcys scrutinizing glances. Only, unlike Miss Bingly and Liza, my companion and I really didn’t want to be studied. My aunt and I had, for the time being, no “secret affairs to discuss” nor were we “conscious that [our] figures appear to the greatest advantage by walking.” (While we’re on Austen, I should point out that Lydia would have enjoyed this encounter to no end. Still, I doubt that she’d be as partial to fatigues as she is to redcoats.)
The leading officer handed a phone to my aunt’s husband. As ‘Ammu (Uncle) explained the situation to a superior, my aunt addressed the leading officer.
“My husband did — for this reason — recommend that we not take pictures, but we come here often enough and no one’s ever told us that just being here is prohibited.”
“You know,” he said amiably, “It’s just that the royal palaces are near. That’s all.”
The superior on the touchscreen phone forgave us our transgression. We were now free (read: required) to go.
“Can we go up this road instead of down?” My aunt’s husband asked. “On our way up here the mud clung to the tires and the pebbles were caked on.” My aunt and I had thought that the tires looked like chocolate donuts sprinkled with coconuts. (We must’ve been hungry, because we also thought that the multicolored heaps of sand looked like mountains of cinnamon, cumin and semolina.)
“Akh. No. There’s a military vehicle coming up. You can follow us out. If you get stuck, we’ll pull you out.” Yes, clearly we were afraid of getting stuck in quicksand. Still, there was no sense in arguing with men who — though kind — could arrest us on a whim.
The soldiers disappeared into the truck and one hopped into the back.
“‘Ammu, I’m sorry to put you through that.” He raised his chin as if to say, don’t mention it.
When we parted ways with the soldiers, my aunt’s husband waved his thanks.
“They took my phone number. Now, if — la samahallah, God forbid — there’s a terrorist incident,” he looked meaningfully at my aunt, “they’ll know who to call.”
