“Are you going to Friday prayer?” asked Amal, my grandparents’ caretaker. I looked at my teta and jiddo—grandma and grandpa—sitting beside me on the balcony while I considered my options. I’d arrived in the Lebanese town of Kab Elias the night before, and it felt too soon to offend my elders and start rumours about myself, the heathen Canadian; so I said sure. “Good,” she said. “I’ll leave you some hot water so you can make wudu.”

I needed to freshen up after a day of travel anyway, and was eager to explore my family’s hometown alone, something I’d never done before. It was my first trip to Lebanon in eight years, and my first as an adult. Fresh out of college, I’d planned to spend the previous summer here to figure out what, if anything, I could do with two certificates from ...