The Wedding Singer of Hebron
"At her cousin's wedding in Hebron, Lina is captivated by the lead singer of the band, whose voice promises pleasures beyond music."
The Wedding Singer of Hebron
The wedding tent blazed with light, tables heavy with mansaf and maqluba, the air thick with perfume and celebration. Lina smoothed her embroidered thobe—her grandmother's, painstakingly preserved—and tried to smile through her exhaustion.
Three weddings this month. Three chances for her mother to parade her before eligible sons of good families. Three nights of forced conversations with men who looked at her like livestock at market.
"Yalla, Lina!" her mother hissed. "Dance! You look like you're at a funeral."
The band launched into a classic dabke, and the floor filled with stomping feet and raised hands. Lina let herself be pulled into the line, moving through steps she'd known since childhood.
Then she saw him.
The singer stood at the microphone, transformed by the music. His voice poured out rich and resonant, a classical Arabic that made her grandmother's love songs sound new. But it was his eyes that caught her—dark, knowing, fixed directly on her.
He sang the next verse to her alone.
"Min inti?" he asked during the band's break, materializing at her elbow. Who are you?
"Nobody. A cousin."
"Nobody." He smiled, revealing a dimple that did dangerous things to her composure. "I'm Mazen. And I don't sing like that to 'nobody.'"
"Then how do you sing?"
"To the most beautiful woman in the room." His boldness should have annoyed her. Instead, heat flooded her cheeks. "Let me get you something to drink."
They stood in the shadows at the edge of the tent, talking as the party swirled around them. Mazen was from Ramallah, sang at weddings and clubs, dreamed of recording his own album someday.
"And you?" he asked. "What do you dream?"
"I dream of one night where no one asks me when I'm getting married."
His laugh was warm, genuine. "Your family too?"
"My mother has a spreadsheet. Literally. Of eligible men."
"Am I on it?"
"A wedding singer?" Lina smiled despite herself. "She'd have a heart attack."
"Then let's give her something to worry about." Mazen set down his drink. "Dance with me."
It was improper—a young woman dancing alone with a man who wasn't family. But the traditional dabke gave way to a slower song, and somehow Lina found herself in Mazen's arms, moving to music that seemed to play for them alone.
"Inti btijannineeni," he murmured against her hair. You're driving me crazy.
"We just met."
"Ba'ref." I know. "But I feel like I've been waiting for you my whole life."
His hand pressed warm against the small of her back. Through the thin fabric of her thobe, his touch burned.
"Come with me," he said. "After. I want to show you the Old City at night."
"That's insane."
"Probably." His lips brushed her ear. "Bas biddi ashufik wahidek." But I want to see you alone.
Every sensible instinct screamed no. But when had sensible ever made her feel like this?
"Maashi," she whispered. Okay.
The Old City of Hebron was a labyrinth of shadows and ancient stone, empty at this hour but for cats and memories. Mazen led her through narrow alleys, past shuttered shops and sleeping homes, until they emerged onto a rooftop overlooking the Ibrahim Mosque.
"Shufi," he said softly. Look.
The view stole her breath—the mosque glowing golden, the hills rising dark against a star-scattered sky, the weight of history pressing down like a blessing.
"It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful."
He kissed her there, under the ancient stars, with the stones of her ancestors beneath their feet. Lina melted into him, all the resistance she'd built against feeling anything crumbling like old mortar.
"Mazen—"
"Say my name again."
"Mazen." She pulled at his shirt. "Please."
They made love on a blanket he produced from his bag—he'd planned this, she realized, and couldn't bring herself to care. Mazen undressed her reverently, kissing each new expanse of skin.
"Jamalak mish tabi'i," he breathed against her breast. Your beauty isn't natural. "Inti min el janna." You're from paradise.
His mouth traced fire down her body. When his tongue found her center, Lina arched off the blanket, one hand stuffed against her mouth to muffle her cries. He played her like an instrument—drawing out notes of pleasure she hadn't known existed.
"I need you," she gasped. "Halla'." Now.
Mazen rose over her, the mosque glowing behind him like a benediction. When he pushed inside, they both groaned—a harmony more perfect than any song.
They moved together in the ancient rhythm, climbed together toward a peak that seemed to touch the stars. When Lina finally fell, Mazen caught her, followed her, their voices mingling in a cry that echoed off the old stones.
"Come to Ramallah," he said afterward, tracing lazy patterns on her shoulder. "Next weekend. I have a show—but after, just us."
"My mother—"
"Insa ummik." Forget your mother. His eyes were serious in the starlight. "This isn't a one-night thing, Lina. I don't sing to strangers. I don't bring them here. You're different."
"How can you know that already?"
"The same way I know the next note before I sing it." He kissed her forehead. "Ba'rafik." I know you.
Below them, the first call to prayer began to echo across the sleeping city. Dawn was coming. Reality would return.
But for now, wrapped in Mazen's arms above the ancient stones of Hebron, Lina let herself believe in something she'd stopped hoping for.
Love, unexpected and undeniable, found in the last place she'd thought to look.
"Na'am," she said finally. "I'll come to Ramallah."
His smile outshone the rising sun.