Nidal FukhMe

His name was Nidal Fukhme… and when he opened his mouth to say his first words, it was apparent that his surname was exactly what I wanted him to do to me.

Now, allow me to backtrack a bit.

I was in my early twenties, and I had never even had thoughts like that about a man. I felt repulsed when one even looked at me, let alone at the thought of marrying one. But there stood Nidal Fukhme, and I was blown away. I couldn’t help but feel like a horrible Muslim – while also pushing that guilt card so deep inside of me so I could continue staring at this beautiful man.

He was fucking beautiful—green eyes, brown hair, long black lashes, tall, well-built, and with impeccable fashion. He definitely knew how to make an entrance. I couldn’t help but appreciate that- seeing a man who cared about his appearance but didn’t seem cocky. Intriguing, to say the least.

I realized he was Palestinian like me. A fact I discovered when he got in the way of my perfect shot of the city from the Adler Planetarium. It was such a clear and beautiful day. Yet how I missed a 6’1” man standing right in front of me, I’ll never know. But when he moved, there was no mistaking him.

Our eyes met, and I’ll admit, it felt like a scene from a Jane Austen novel. He asked the usual questions Arab men ask when they’re genuinely interested in a girl—or they’ve found her somewhere she shouldn’t be or not dressed modestly enough for their taste: “What’s your name? What’s your family’s name? What balad do you come from?” But then he asked about the photo I was taking. About how amazing the view was and how Chicago was his favorite city in the world. He wanted to know mine and wasn’t surprised that it too was and still is, Chicago. But the kicker, the question that really got me, was: “Can I have your dad’s number?” A MusRab man who’s genuinely interested in a woman—especially from that generation—would never ask for her number directly. Instead, he’d ask for her father’s.

It’s always: 1-800-CALL-MY-BABA. 

If her father isn’t present or has passed away, then the responsibility shifts to her brother(s), uncle, cousins, or another male guardian.

I mean, I had to laugh to myself. He was serious about this. Normally, when a guy asked for my dad’s number, I’d give him the wrong one. I was a serial monogamist.

However, there I was, staring at this man—this beautiful man—and I was doing the one thing I never did: I gave him my dad’s number. I’ll never forget the way he smiled. It was so genuine. So sweet. So exquisite.

“We’ll be in touch soon,” he said with a smile before walking away.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I watched him take every step away from me. He didn’t turn to look back and I suppose I was grateful for that because otherwise he would have seen me standing there like the hopeless romantic I had just discovered I was.

I couldn’t wait for him to call. I found myself fantasizing about what it would be like to sit across from him, to hear about his favorite movies, maybe laugh about something ridiculous, and—of course—just look at him again. Feel his energy.

But days passed.
Nothing.

Not a single call.

I found myself slipping out of character, asking my dad over breakfast if anyone had called about me. He shook his head, and I huffed, defeated. Of course, in typical Arab fashion, I overheard him saying to my mom, “See? I told you she always wanted to get married.”

And there it was: my frustration. Was my repulsion to marriage just a defense mechanism? A shield I had used to protect myself from the idea of settling down? After all, maybe I hadn’t found the right man. Was I the girl who had been fooling herself all along? Was it possible that this—Nidal Fukhme—was the one who would change everything?

I couldn’t stop asking myself those questions, and as the silence dragged on, with my dad’s phone drier than the Sahara, I found myself in a battle I didn’t even know I was having. The one with myself.

I had to admit, I was starting to wonder if my reluctance to get married was more about my pride than I wanted to acknowledge. Was it really about independence, or was it just fear? Fear of failure. Fear that wanting it would make me no different from the marriage-obsessed women I despised. That if I agreed to “I do,” I’d somehow be proving them right—and that was the last thing I ever wanted. To give the culture, community, and even my own family the impression that I wanted what they did, when, in fact, I never had.

And then Nidal came along and threw a wrench into the hubris bubble I had built around myself. The one that was so certain she had all the clarity, when in fact, my life was suddenly filled with a shit ton of question marks—and I didn’t like it one bit. So naturally, I wrote. I poured my heart out in my blog, and in retrospect, I can’t help but admire the woman I was back then.

Looking back as a forty-year-old woman today at that young girl with so many feelings and the courage to put them out into the world—I’m discovering parts of her as I sit here now, sharing my thoughts and feelings weekly. For so long, I’ve lived ashamed of what I think and feel at my core. Yet that Faiza… she was so fucking fearless. And I love that one dark night, she tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Let’s write again.” Because it’s only when I write that I truly feel free, with all the wisdom I have now to share.

A part of that wisdom? It’s what I wish I could have told my younger self as she sat on that floor crying, thinking Nidal Fukhme would never call. I’d say:

“Girl, chill. He’s going to call. He NEEDS to call.”

Maybe then, I wouldn’t have stressed for the days that turned into weeks, waiting. And still—not a word.

And then, finally, the call came.

My dad picked up the phone, and I could hear him talking to someone—calm, measured, like he was negotiating a major deal. After a few minutes, he hung up and told me that a man had called about me. It was Nidal. But what I didn’t know was just how loaded his father was. Turns out, Nidal was a doctor, and his family was well-off—like, really well-off. And apparently, Nidal was one of the most eligible bachelors in our community.

I’d be lying if I said my ego didn’t do a little happy dance. The idea of him—this incredibly attractive, successful, and well-respected man—being interested in me was intoxicating. In a way, it made me feel like I was breaking free from the label of being the “expired” girl no one cared to marry. This man—the one who everyone else would’ve fought for—was asking about me.

I could feel my chest swell with pride as my dad said, “He wants to come over and meet the family.”

I think I could’ve passed out right there.

But then, my dad made a comment that had me laughing nervously under my breath. “Seems a little quick,” he said, glancing at me. “He must be ugly.”

Ugly? I almost choked on my own spit. “He’s definitely not!” I blurted out, before I could stop myself.

Look, I knew better than anyone that Muslim girls—especially back then—didn’t date. There was no talking to a man, not even in the way I had with Nidal at the planetarium. If my dad found out we’d exchanged words before the “official” meeting, well, there would be hell to pay. So, I quickly tried to cover for my slip-up:

“I mean, if everyone wants him, he must be attractive, right?”

My dad bought it and nodded. “Make sure you look your best. No boys’ clothes,” he added.

Oh, I would definitely look my best. If there was one thing I knew, it was how to show up when the stakes were high, and especially with Nidal Fukhme, where the stakes couldn’t have been higher.

The night came. The night I would meet him and his family. The night I would question everything I ever knew about myself and the world I had always known.

CONTINUE READING 02/02/2025