why you should be afraid of love, the evil eye, paranoid Muslim mothers, and being in a tender relationship with the moon
be very very afraid of love as it is very very dangerous.
Whenever I looked up at the moon, it would always be when I walked home from a night out. I always felt like the moon was following me, accompanying me on my walk like an old friend. Over time, the moon became sacred to me and I started seeking solace in it. Somewhere along the way, it became my portal to Allah, assuring me that everything was going to be okay.
When suddenly last week, everything changed. As I got off the F train and walked home after a long adventurous day, the moon stared at me in its full glowing glory. But when I looked at it, all I saw was her beautiful face planted on the giant rocky moon. I smiled and saw her smiling back at me. I found my heart glowing and bursting at the sight of it. And it terrified me.
I was sitting outside a movie theater in Bushwick, anxiously combing through my hair with my fingers, spraying my travel-sized perfume every two seconds, and checking myself on selfie mode if my lips looked pasty or if something was stuck in my teeth even though I hardly ate all day from nerves. I timidly looked back and in front of me to see if anyone could sense my anxiety from afar and wondered if they pathetically thought to themselves, “Ah. First date frets.”
I fidgeted with my phone as I waited, fixing my lipstick when I received a text from my mother:
“Ammu, you looks very beautiful today. I dont want to tell you because of the evil eye.”
I smiled to myself, beaming at the fact that my mother, who rarely ever compliments my appearance, acknowledged how I looked today. All of my anxieties seemed to melt away immediately, a sense of confidence rushing through me but also a sense of amusement, as little did she know that her daughter was all dolled up for a date with someone she would never think of in a million years.
I thought about my mother sitting on her favorite spot on the sofa in our living room, the seat next to the window, and imagined her typing the text. How she slowly pressed each key with her chubby fingers, going back and forth on whether or not she should truly reveal what was on her mind. Because that is the biggest rule of Muslim motherhood after all. Never unmask your true feelings to your children.
I had always viewed the evil eye as this invisible dark force. Perhaps that’s what makes it so dangerously horrifying. An unseen impalpable power that preyed on every word spoken to ruin your life in a split second.
I heard all sorts of awful stories from friends and families. Someone complimented a neighborhood girl’s lush hair, and the next day she got lice and had to shave her head. Another told an aunt her hands were soft and she sliced a finger while cutting onions that very night. An auntie told my mom her skin was lovely and an ugly permanent scar erupted across her chest.
“You can never trust anyone,” my mother told me. “You never know what their intentions are.”
I stared at her, puzzled. “Not even you or daddy?”
She shook her head. “Not even us. Nothing is more dangerous in this world than a mother’s love.”
I blinked as she calmly told me this. I didn’t entirely understand what she meant, but she was my mother, someone that loves me deeply, so it meant that it was true. And so, I nodded and sealed it in my heart forever.
Later that night after the date ended, I reread her text over and over again.
“I didn’t want to tell you because of the evil eye.”
Gazing outside the window of the car, I suddenly began to wonder about all the other times she was close to telling me her true feelings before resorting to pulling herself back.
Then I thought of how my mother never called me beautiful. Perhaps there were a few small moments, but I hardly remembered no matter how hard I tried. However, strangely enough, I rarely find myself longing for her to do so. Since I have become aware of the rules of the evil eye, naturally, I never expected her to ever say anything to me. Because I have learned that nothing is more dangerous in this world than a mother telling her daughter that she’s beautiful. Perhaps it is because I know that her fear was her own way of protecting and loving me.
But I couldn’t help by shake off this strange feeling as the night came to an end. Gentle rain began hitting the car window. When was the exact moment in my life that I accepted her fear as love? But most importantly, when did I start to become afraid of love?
During the first two weeks of our relationship, I found myself feeling like none of it was real. I’d wake up terrified that they suddenly changed their mind and that they realized they actually didn’t want to be in a relationship with me. And when they did tell me how much they liked me, I was baffled. Like some part of me deep inside didn’t believe them. Or didn’t want to believe them.
Eventually, other fears arose. I was scared to reveal this newfound relationship to people in my life. As if I wanted to keep it as some sort of secret that only I could savor. While I wanted to celebrate and tell everyone in the world, my go-to feeling was to hide it.
As silly as it sounds, whenever I wanted to post pictures of us, I felt the strange need to cover her face like a Muslim mother with her newborn baby, covering their pure face with a giant emoji. I felt anxious about other people’s feelings and projections and wanted to regain some sort of control to stop them from tainting our tender love.
There would be moments where I’d be smiling while making myself a cup of tea or even sending an email to my boss, thinking of sweet intimate moments we shared with each other. When instantly, panic would overwhelm me, swallowing me whole, telling me that none of it was real and it was all in my head. The voice lingering in the corner of my mind began to convince me that during those fond moments of softness and affection, she was actually repulsed by me. And so, I would shut down those memories and continued on with my day.
I began wondering why I felt this way and how I constantly felt like by acknowledging her love, some magical dark force would snatch it away. That by accepting her love, somehow the evil eye would come after us.
I began to feel frustrated with myself and felt like I was being hysterical.
“It isn’t supposed to be like this. What’s wrong with me?” I thought of chick flicks I religiously watched since I was a kid, dreaming of this day. How everything inside me would feel gooey and lift you up in the air, a corny love song playing in the background of all times and making me feel like I was in a deliciously bad Hallmark movie. But instead of these sentiments I spent years desiring, I was paralyzed by fear.
“Maybe my body is just rejecting it.” I started to tell myself. “Perhaps I’m just not made for love.”
But then I would see her face again and everything inside of me would turn gooey. The air around us felt soft and light, the sky suddenly tinted pink, and whenever she reached out to embrace me, it feels like we were both being lifted into the neverending sky.
How every time she looked at me, I wanted to burst into an explosion but also stand very very still and remember every millisecond of each moment we were together. How when it was time to leave and I kept saying goodbye, my legs refused to move. How whenever we had our nightly phone calls, I never wanted to hang up no matter how sleepy I was. How her curls that laid on her shoulder would bounce as she laughed at a lame joke I made, I wondered how someone could be so beautiful.
But still, the fear lingered. Whenever she reached for my hand, I squirmed. Or when she called me pretty, I shook my head and refused to accept it. It couldn’t be true. Her love was not something I could trust. Everywhere I turned, I sensed the horrifying force of the evil eye at every corner. I tried so hard to focus on us, focus on her, but still, all I could feel was the wrath of the dreadful force. Or perhaps it wasn’t the evil eye after all, but my fear. However, it was easier to blame it on the evil eye instead.
Out of restless desperation, I sought help from my dear friend. I texted her paragraphs of my anxieties and shut my phone to start getting ready for a night out.
When I got out of the shower, I received a voice note from her. She said words I would never forget, sealed in my heart forever.
“My dear, life is ephemeral. We will all die and it is a beautiful thought. What you have together is a miracle. Be in the moment with her. Absorb all the love and never let it go. Surrender to it. Surrender to the love.”
As the voice note ended, I stared at my phone screen, paralyzed. But not paralyzed from fear like in the last few weeks, but paralyzed by a sense of awakeness.
My alarm went off and I realized it was time to go. I locked my phone, put on my headphones, and walked to the train station, her words echoing through me.
Surrender, surrender, surrender.
Every day since I met her, I began telling my mother almost every day that she is beautiful. When I first called her beautiful, my mother turned red in bashful shame and became silent.
The second time I called her beautiful again she yelped, “Cheee,” in disgust “Stop being so silly. Look at this big belly. Look at my brown freckles. Look at how short I am. Beautiful….pfft.”
I wondered why she reacted both ways of stifled embarrassment and bitter recoilment. But then I finally realized that it is because no one had ever called her beautiful. I thought about my mother’s mother, a woman I’ve never met before, and all the times that she too was close to telling her daughter her true feelings before resorting to pulling herself back. And maybe somewhere along the way, while her daughter accepted her fear as love, she also accepted that she would never know such love. As love is something to be terrified of.
The next time I told my mom she was beautiful, she did not become quiet or fight against it. Instead, she whispered thank you and shyly hugged me from the side. Now every time I tell her so, she smiles largely and beams.
“Thank you!” she exclaims each time. She’d skip away with a sense of knowing. Knowing that in fact, she was beautiful. Perhaps it is because it is I, her daughter, was the one saying it, someone that loves her deeply. So that must mean that it is true.
I will show her love. I will show her not to fear it. Slowly, but surely.
That night after receiving the voice note from my friend, my partner and I stood on a rooftop of an apartment somewhere between Brooklyn and Queens. The moon hung above us and it was so large and glowed so bright.
“Look!” I yelped. “It’s a full moon!” I pointed at it and looked at her.
She reached for my hand, smiled, and whispered, “You’re as beautiful as the moon.” I looked at her and paused. I did not become silent. I did not recoil. I did not hide. I will not be afraid of your love. I surrender to you, I told myself. I smiled so big, my face becoming as large as the moon, my grip tightening around her hand, never wanting to let go, and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. A giggle escaped her lips.
Nights later, I stood at the F train subway station, standing under the same moon, the only things changing were me and the day. I felt the fear swarming back as I saw her gentle face on the moon. But as I saw her tender smile looking down at me, the fear disappeared. I took a deep breath, surrendering to the dark night sky.
I grabbed my phone and took a picture of the big moon, becoming frustrated that the camera couldn’t capture its beauty.
“Saw the moon and thought of you,” I typed. I looked at the text, reread it, and felt my cheeks sting with embarrassment but also fear, wondering what she was going to think.
I put my phone away and quickly walked home. But as the moon accompanied me like an old friend, I felt its force. A sacred familiar force I often felt. And so, I took out my phone and stared at the text. The leaves on branches above me rustled in the faint wind. I pressed sent and watched the words form into a blue bubble. I tuck my phone into my bag and looked back up at the glowing moon.
I will not be afraid of love, moon. I will surrender to it. I will surrender to the love.