The Arsonists' City

by Hala Alyan

For all their talk of eco-friendly diapers, their decidedly casual fashion choices—Kurt Cobain T-shirts, pigtails; they give the impression of children who have children—these mothers revere wealth as much as anyone. Or, rather, not wealth but what wealth leaves in its wake: veneration, respect, fear.

They talked in that deep, eager way of early love, when every thought feels new as snow, and you see yourself in another person, glowing and pretty and clever.

An outcry in an echo chamber isn’t much of an outcry.

Mimi loves college towns. They have a certain amnesia about aging.

Yes, we like to look at ourselves. Even the ancient Egyptians knew that. But modern self-portraiture has more to do with our cultural anxiety about representation.”

Her family beams and she understands that she’s given them something.

The truth is she can’t unsee herself in relation to the city.

Girls in Beirut . . . Mazna thinks as she wads up toilet paper. But she doesn’t know how to finish the thought. She doesn’t know whether she’s supposed to condemn them or judge them or want to be exactly like them.

But being the youngest means entering your prime while the rest of the family are leaving theirs. It isn’t fair.

She imagines playing one of these women onstage, affecting the accent and lifted chins. She’d have to channel pure privilege. Tennis courts and sparkling water and clean glasses. A belonging as effortless as air.

Things can look so different depending on where you’re standing.