Author name: lumamufleh

An American high school student was fascinated with women in the U.S. with whom he was playing basketball. He says he felt uncomfortable when a woman approached him at a game in the gym. She smiled and said, “Grow up.” He says, “She wouldn’t even look at you. She’s pretty.’ He says she was a

The tennis court was the only place I performed more often and harder than anyone else, every day, all the time. Tennis gave me the chance to laser in on the only person I could truly count on—myself. The American Community School had a great library, all dark wood and hidden nooks hemmed in by

When news broke of the invasion, the men gathered around the TV like birds at a feeder, unmoved by the lure of swimming, snorkeling, or skiing in the turquoise water that stretched out below the surface. Hussein had invaded Kuwait so that he could take control of the country’s large oil reserves to help pay

A Bedouin woman claimed she could see someone’s future by studying the coffee grounds left at the bottom of their mug. She told her mother not to worry; she would conceive soon, and even better, it would be a boy. A boy would be the one who carried on the family name, who would be

Abla was the baby of the family, much beloved, inheriting the family’s blond hair and blue eyes and its playful nature. She was fun and funny, magic and magnetic—and almost like a best friend or a sister. Abla slept in my parents’ bedroom, a space I typically only saw in the yellow light before school.

The author’s mother encouraged her to dress her daughter up as a doll. She was the kind of woman who never left home without her own makeup. Her closet was full of Valentino and Chanel, silk and satin. Her mother expected that I would like all those things, but I didn’t like them. I felt

Isabella was the daughter of diplomats, half British and half Malay, with shiny brown hair and bangs that framed her freckled face. She was by far the prettiest girl in school, and maybe the nicest, too. She resisted all the cliques that everyone else had arranged themselves into. She thought I was a good soccer

Amman was a city of light and heat, of concrete and sand. The author was raised with traditional Arab values: respect for our elders, loyalty to our family, and devotion to our parents. Friday nights were “American Night” when we ate steak and mashed potatoes, or hot dogs with macaroni and cheese. Even TV was