It’s the last day of Ramadan And just as I’m about to enjoy myself and relax, the sudden reality on what is about to take place tomorrow dawns on me and my social anxiety like a dark, fraught cloud.
It’s Eid al-Fitr, an important religious holiday celebrated by us Muslims worldwide, marking the end of Ramadan, the Islamic holy month of fasting. Eid as a kid was the best time of the year.
But now for people like me, and by that I mean a twenty-nine-year-old single Lebanese woman, it’s a time when my inadequacy to find a suitor is at the top of everyone’s agenda.
My brain spots the sweet trays of ma’amoul and decides that one last pistachio biscuit can’t hurt. My mum stares at me through the window and gives me that look which loosely translates to: Really? How are you going to fit into your clothes? Remember, you need to look your best if any potential match were to come by.
I finish getting dressed in clothes that miraculously fit, hours earlier than necessary, and with a face full of the makeup my sisters urged me to put on. ‘Don’t you want people to notice you?’ they both say like that’s what someone with social anxiety would crave for: attention. This is the exact time I count the hours till sunset, when my social anxiety and I can slink back to the seclusion of our room and escape people’s judgements and the daunting reality of why, oh why, am I still single?
The first guests that arrive are usually close family, like my aunties and uncles and all their married children. They know my marital status and only ever make the odd comments like ‘This time next year you’ll be married’ or the ‘Don’t worry it will happen when you least expect it’. I’m not entirely sure what signals I’m giving out to make people believe that I’m ‘worried’ or ‘expecting’ Prince Mohamed to waltz in and sweep me off my feet, but still, I nod and smile and continue to offer sweets.
Arab Australian Other. Source: Supplied
We talk and laugh and my anxiety and I are calm till the next batch of people arrive – the Fifteen Minutes of Pain Guests.
These usually consist of Dad’s friends of friends, workmates or members of the community who stare and smile while I stare and smile back. Awkward, I know. They proceed to ask my mum questions about my age, occupation and marital status as though I don’t exist or as though I can’t put two and two together when they drop my name in between their Arabic conversations.
My being unwed is not only baffling to them but, for whatever reason, they take it upon themselves to try and figure out why I’m still single, like my life is a game on Family Feud.
‘Too picky.’ 40 points.
‘Doesn’t give anyone a chance.’ 30 points.
‘Doesn’t put herself out there.’ 20 points.
‘Has a high standard – needs to shorten her husband checklist.’
10 points.
(Who knew having a job or a normal haircut should be negotiable things on a woman’s list?)
The intimate details of my personal life are now displayed for all guests, which is about the same time my anxiety searches for different escape exits. ‘But why?’ they ask over and over again, and more than anything I want to say, Because the sons you raise are not husband or father material, but I stay quiet and smile through my teeth, praying that by some miracle a hole will swallow me. They then, out of pity, offer a selection of potential grooms, either their nephews from Lebanon or that one guy who’s been married ten times with ten kids because what else should a girl expect when she reaches my age.
And if that’s not bad enough, I now have to sit and listen to their high-school daughters whinge and whine about how they’ll die if they reach my age with no ring, or how they’re unable to fathom what I’ve been doing with my life for the past ten years. I could say that I have a double degree with a Masters in Teaching or that I’ve been offered a publishing contract for my first ever YA novel or that I was awarded a scholarship to complete my doctorate in Education, but again I nod and smile, waiting for the sun to set. Plus no-one likes to hear someone rant about their achievements like some kind of know-it-all.
I miss the old me, the me who couldn’t sleep at night because of how excited I was for the festivities of Eid.
"So, do you allow people to come and see her?" I hear one lady ask my mother like I'm some damsel in distress locked away in some dark tall tower.
My brain has immediate flashbacks to the time I have accepted any potential offers to come over which only make my stomach turn.
I don’t mind the questions because, like always, I can’t seem to understand why I agreed to do this in the first place. And yes, I have a choice. I’m not forced into this pain.
Once the awkward chatter is out of the way, it’s time to offer the potential groom and his family something to drink, which is done by my father. In my household a woman never serves in these types of social gatherings, rather she sits and relaxes; this reminds the groom that I am no waiter and that there’ll be no chance to judge my wifely skills. I never like to make direct eye contact with my brothers because we have our own little games we play, with our own little codes to decide whether or not I should give any poor groom a chance. My brother’s codes go as follows:
• Scrolling on the phone – find out more information, he could be worth it.
• Cracking fingers – don’t even think about it.
• Scratch head – confused; he may be lying about what he said or things don’t add up.
• Fake laugh – go outside to the kitchen so we can chat and debrief.
• Drink a full glass of drink – he’s weird and the night needs to end.
• Blow nose loudly – abort mission now!
OK, I’m starting to see why I’m still single . . .
‘So, I have a 3ariis? He’s very handsome,’ the lady tries once more and I give my mother that look to change the subject, which my mother does, in her calm and collected manner.
It hits me – it’s not Eid or the social events that I dread, it’s the people. See, my type of anxiety is in the fine print.
It’s in people’s stares and side comments, their never-ending list of expectations placed upon a girl they barely know, hidden beneath their ‘good intentions’.
I miss the old me, the me who couldn’t sleep at night because of how excited I was for the festivities of Eid.
My dad checks in and kisses me on my forehead before he reminds me of God’s plan of greatness for me. I’m lucky that I have parents who raised me to chase my dreams and follow what my heart desired, no matter people’s opinions.
It’s not to say that my mum doesn’t want to see me in a white dress, I mean every mother would, but she knows things happen with good timing.
This is an edited extract of 'Being Arab, Single and Female' from the collection 'Arab, Australian, Other: Stories on Race and Identity' edited by Randa Abdel-Fattah and Sara Saleh, and published by Pan MacMillan Australia, RRP$32.99.
Rawah Arja is completing her doctorate in Education. She has been shortlisted for the Charlotte Waring Barton Award and is publishing her debut YA novel with Giramondo Publishing. Rawah is a part of Finishing School, a collective of women writers with strong connections to Western Sydney. She was a recipient of the WestWords Varuna Emerging Writers’ Residential Program and has featured at Sydney Writers’ Festival. You can follow Rawah on Twitter at
