Zeeniya JawahirThe beach was filling up gradually after the Friday prayers. People arrived with large bags, mats, and
water bottles. Some women were spreading the mats in the shade of coconut palms and arranged
the lunch they had brought, calling out to their children who had dashed toward the sea to play the
moment they saw it. Soon, it would look as if the entire village was there.
Friday was always a holiday in that village. Long ago, the ancestors chose to close their shops after
the Friday prayers to spend time with their family after a week of work, and the descendants kept that
tradition alive. That hadn’t changed. But something else was changing, quietly and steadily.
Across the road from the beach stretched a line of luxurious wedding halls. Serial lights of green,
blue, and orange dangled from the roofs and coconut trees in the courtyard, while flex boards
displayed the names of couples whose fates were being sealed that very day.
Asma’s name was printed on one of them that Friday: Welcome to the wedding of Asma & Khalid, 6th
October 2025.
She sat on the decorated throne, her hennaed hands clutching a floral bouquet, smiling gently at
women who came to greet her. Around her, cousins were busy taking pictures to post later on social
media, captioned ‘Wedding Vibes’.
But Asma’s thoughts were elsewhere since the day Khalid got his visa to Dubai after securing a high-paying job there. Everyone said she was lucky and that her life was settled. Somewhere among the
chatter, Asma could hear a relative asking her mother, “Is she going with him?” and her mother
replying, “Let him get settled there first, we’ll see later.”
In a corner of her heart, though, a small unease took root. Khalid was following in the footsteps of
every other man in the village. She had seen what became of the growing number of women whose
husbands left for foreign lands in search of better prospects. Women who learned to live with the
distant, two-dimensional presence of their partners on screens. Their houses were filled with brand
new things, yet empty of familial bliss. Their children learnt their fathers’ faces through pixels, but not
their warmth.
She had often wondered, what is the meaning of a house without those who make it a home?
The wedding went on beautifully followed by the mandatory photoshoot.
A month after the wedding, Khalid left for Dubai. Asma stood at the airport watching him vanish into
the crowd. “I’ll call when I reach,” he said, his eyes avoiding hers. That night she wept quietly. She felt
like she would never recover from this ache of parting. A month of living in a fairytale, gone. Simply
vanished.
Life went on as it always does. With or without what one yearns for. Occasionally on Fridays, Asma
would go to the beach with her parents and her in-laws. From afar, the scene remained the
same–families, food, laughter. But if one looked closely, the picture was incomplete.
There were fewer men.
Women tended to their children as they enjoyed the sea breeze. Old men sat in circles, discussing politics
and life. Teen boys huddled over their phones. Girls strolled along the seashore, never far from their
mothers. The men were elsewhere, across oceans, beneath foreign skies.
Asma’s village was no less than a Remittance Hub, contributing enormously to the country’s
economy. But to Asma, it looked more like a village of waiting. Wives waiting for their husbands,
mothers waiting for their sons, children waiting for their fathers they barely knew.
Her neighbor, Masooma aunty, lived alone. Her son settled in the UK with his wife and children,
coming rarely for brief holidays. Masooma aunty’s house had two floors but echoed with silence.
“I have money, other than that I have nothing Asma”, she would say, while offering her tea.
Across the street, Mariyam aunty’s husband had returned from Kuwait after twenty years only to see
their sons off to Saudi, repeating the cycle.
Asma often thought about these women, their lives a long act of patience and gratefulness when
nothing else could answer the question, what is at the end of this waiting?
With most men gone, women slowly took charge of the schools, the stores and small businesses. Yet
the whole situation seemed hollow to Asma.
The men always left in the idea of returning in a few years after earning something substantial. But
one can never earn enough. There was always a new commitment.
She wondered, ‘What will become of this village?’ She believed a society is built from the perspective
of both men and women. It is not built only with men’s earnings, it also needs their presence and their
guidance. Something can’t be progressive when one earns money, but loses time.
Khalid’s calls came less frequently now. He was busy, work took most of his time. Sometimes, Asma
would see his status updates of mall photos, co-workers, city skylines. She would type messages and
delete them before sending. This was supposed to be the time they both navigate life together,
supporting each other, arguing with each other, growing alongside each other. But it has now reduced
to building a life separately, while mastering the art of missing and waiting for a reunion.
It’s ironic, she thought as she silently sipped her evening tea, that her husband was in a country that
would never grant him citizenship no matter how long he served there. How can a life be complete in
a place that will never belong to you?
Her phone rang. It was Khalid.
“Assalamu Alaikum,” he said, smiling. “How are you?”
They talked for some time, exchanging polite questions. He mentioned applying for a family visa, to
which Asma hesitated, then said softly, “I think we can have a good life here too.” But he smiled,
“You’re being naive, Asma. There is nothing there.” But Asma knew there was everything here: Roots,
family, belonging. She wanted to give it a chance.
When the call ended, she sat in the weird silence that always crept after talking with Khalid. His voice
It was real, but his presence was not.
Months passed. The village began to change more visibly. The schools now had more female teachers than ever and the government offices had more female officers. Women got together and opened a Women’s Evening Market on the beach where they sold freshly baked items of various kinds, buns, pastries, cakes, cookies, pies.
Asma joined them. She started baking small pastries. Business bloomed. She even taught a few girls
how to bake. She found a sense of purpose in working together with the community.
Still, every night when she switched off the kitchen lights, she would glance at their wedding photo on
the fridge and whisper, “When are you coming back?”
No answer came.
One day, Khalid called with unexpected news. “Asma, my company has offered me a position in
Canada. I might not come home this year.”
She was silent.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
“Alhamdulillah,” she replied, even when her heart trembled at the idea of another year of yearning.
That night, Asma couldn’t sleep. She realised that Khalid’s world was expanding, while hers was a
constant battle between reality and her idealistic views. She thought of women who left home to build
a shared life, wherever it might lead. And of women who wanted to live with someone they love
, somewhere they belong.
One Friday, Asma was standing in her stall at the Evening Market. The air was filled with the crispy
scent of buns. Across the road, the flex board read: Welcome to the Wedding of Aleena & Suthais.
While Asma was looking, the newlyweds came out of the wedding hall. Aleena recognised her and
waved. She waved back and watched as the bride’s car passed by, covered in flowers. A quiet
sadness settled in her chest at the thought Aleena too, would soon carry the ache of loving across
oceans.
