Back in the hotel room, deep red marks from the shopping bag handles etched my wrists, and my skin felt sticky all over. I dumped the bags in a corner and flopped onto the bed, spread-eagled.
Suddenly, everything was quiet. I stared wide-eyed at the dazzlingly ornate crystal chandelier on the ceiling and the intricate, exotic patterns on the wallpaper. It hit me with startling clarity: I was really in Dubai! That impossibly luxurious Dubai. Far from my parents' care, everything from now on was on me.
After zoning out for a while, my hand instinctively dipped into my pocket and pulled out the small white bottle Musa had given me. I hadn't opened it. My diarrhea had stopped, and frankly, I still didn't trust Middle Eastern men enough. Musa might be handsome and seem gentle, but it couldn't erase my instinctive wariness towards Muslim men in white robes.
I was drifting off to sleep when a text alert jolted me awake. Grabbing my phone, I saw a message from an unknown number: "Did you see what I added to the USB drive?"
Ayub had returned my USB drive before class. We'd exchanged numbers, but this sender was unknown, location Dubai – Ayub must have shared my number. It only took me seconds to figure it out. I texted back: "Musa?"
Ayub had said Musa found the drive and gave it to him. Had Musa not only looked inside but added something?
The reply came instantly: "Yes." Just that one word sent a jolt through me. I scrambled for the USB drive and plugged it into my laptop.
The drive didn't hold much. I scoured every folder, but nothing seemed different. Just as I was about to text Musa back, my phone pinged again.
"Do you think my comments are fair?"
Comments?! He'd added comments?! I scrutinized the files again. Then I saw it. The filenames for all my qipao photos had been changed!
Previously, they were just camera-generated codes. Now, each had a short comment! He'd actually labeled them based on his preference: "Beautiful," "Average," "Not Good." He'd even renamed a photo of me in a short, ink-patterned qipao to "My Favorite."
My first reaction was fury. Who did he think he was?! Judging my personal photos, labeling them without permission? I guessed this was the deep-seated patriarchal mindset of Middle Eastern men, used to women's subservience. But me? I was a proud, independent Chinese woman, top of my class since forever. I wouldn't accept some Middle Eastern man slapping labels on me!
Fuming, I grabbed my phone and fired back without hesitation: "I took those photos for myself, not for men to judge! Don't touch my stuff without permission again!"
Before coming to Dubai, I'd read countless articles online about "low status of Arab women" and "Muslim women as male property." Sending that text, I braced for Musa's backlash – maybe something about "men's absolute rights."
But nothing. Silence. Deafening silence. Just as I thought he'd ignored me, my phone rang shrilly – Musa's number!
I froze. What could he possibly want to say? Was texting not enough; did he need to yell at me? After a few seconds of hesitation, I answered, steeling myself for a Middle Eastern "values lecture."
It was nothing like I expected. His breathing was calm, devoid of any arrogance. After a brief pause, his voice came through the receiver, carrying a distinct note of apology: "I'm sorry. I just really liked those photos. They were truly beautiful."
His gentle opening disarmed me. I didn't know how to respond, still unsure of Musa's true nature. He seemed poised and gentlemanly, yet he'd frowned over a sanitary pad and tampered with my files. Now, after acting high-handedly, he was apologizing? This guy was impossible to figure out!
Hearing my silence, Musa seemed anxious. He quickly added, "I heard Western women like direct compliments about their looks. I thought you might too... I didn't mean to upset you."
"I'm Chinese, not Western," I said, my anger cooling slightly at his careful explanation, though I kept my tone firm. "Being complimented is one thing. Being judged is completely different! You should understand that distinction, right?"
My words held a faint edge of sarcasm. Musa was quiet for a moment. Then he said something that seemed off-topic: "Dubai is becoming more international. Many Muslims are becoming more open. But my family is very traditional. My parents' religious principles are unshakeable. My sisters can only wear the niqab [Note: the face veil showing only eyes], unlike families who allow women to show their faces. Even in Dubai, interacting with foreign women is unavoidable... but actually, my family doesn't permit it."
I didn't fully grasp his deeper meaning. "So?"
"So..." He paused, sounding almost embarrassed, his voice lowering. "So... I genuinely don't have much experience. I didn't distinguish properly..."
His words hit me like a physical blow. Stunned, I blurted out, "I get street etiquette, but during your undergrad? Surely universities aren't that segregated?"
Musa's voice remained low and steady, shattering my disbelief. "Take this university we're at now. Only graduate classes are co-ed. Undergrad classes, cafeterias, extracurriculars – everything is strictly segregated. No chance for contact. Some universities in Dubai with many international students are less strict, but my undergrad was completely segregated. Other things? Taxis, buses, metro stations, bank lounges... aren't they all gender-separated? You must have seen that."
I knew Muslim gender segregation was strict, but this still felt unreal. "But Ayub said you're an oil trader with several companies! You must deal with all sorts of people. How can you avoid women?"
On the other end, he seemed to chuckle softly. He countered, "How many women do you think work in the oil industry?"
His question made me realize my naivety. Local Emirati women faced job restrictions; entering the male-dominated oil sector was unlikely. Foreign oil workers sent to the Middle East were usually men.
Seeing I understood, Musa took a quiet breath before stating seriously, "Actually, external restrictions are secondary. My inner faith and my parents' demands are the fundamental reasons."
The phrase "inner faith," so alien to my cultural background, sent shivers down my spine. Strangely, though, his explanation helped me make sense of his seemingly contradictory traits.
Dubai's growing openness had inevitably influenced Musa as an oil trader, shaping his polite and gentle demeanor. Yet, born into an ultra-traditional Muslim family, the core tenets of his faith and upbringing were immovable.
Personality is shaped by environment. Musa, in Dubai, embodied this clash: open yet orthodox, candid yet conservative, surrounded by luxury yet adhering to spiritual austerity. Dubai itself was a city of contradictions, and Musa was a man caught within them.
He probably didn't see the contradiction at all.
I recalled his actions over the past days: visibly displeased but restrained when he saw the sanitary pad; thoughtfully buying medicine for my diarrhea but leaving it silently due to Islamic norms; today, impulsively renaming my photos – a flash of ingrained patriarchy quickly suppressed by his ingrained courtesy.
These actions seemed contradictory, but viewed together, they painted a coherent picture of his character. It all clicked.
Understanding this eased my lingering resentment. My body relaxed. Then, a surge of intense curiosity bubbled up! Here was a local willingly on the phone! I might as well ask the questions burning in my mind!
Covering my mouth to stifle a giggle, a thrill of voyeuristic excitement coursed through me. I leaned in, my voice brimming with eager curiosity: "Musa! Is it true that before marriage, men in Dubai don't even know what their bride looks like?"