by Elif Shafak
The journalist’s girlfriend took in a lungful of air before she said, ‘So they were making a bomb in their flat. Imagine. They put the pieces together, like some sort of demonic Lego. It detonated. Good news: the terrorists died on the spot. Bad news: the neighbour upstairs also lost his life. He was a retired teacher.’
‘Probably taught geography, poor chap,’ the businessman said, slightly slurring. ‘What a fate … must have been a decent citizen, marking student papers, wearing threadbare suits. After years of hard work, he retires. Enough of wrestling with ignorant little brats. Bunch of terrorists move in downstairs … the hell with them, they start cooking bombs … Boom! End of the teacher. Taught his students about oxbow lakes and capital cities, when all around them is the fucking geography of terror!’
It was a moment before anyone spoke again. ‘Do we know who the bombers were?’ asked the PR woman. ‘Was it Marxists? Kurdish separatists? Islamists?’
The architect chuckled. ‘What a rich menu!’
Peri heard her husband clear his throat, softly. ‘It’s not only terrorism or the horror of it,’ Adnan said. ‘It’s how easily we get used to such news. Tomorrow this time few people will be talking about the teacher. In a week, he’ll be forgotten.’
Peri looked down, the sadness in his words reaching her heart and staying there, like the heat that languishes in the dying embers of a logfire.
The Face of the Other
Oxford, 2002
Outside the front gate a cab was waiting for them. They rode in silence for a while, until Peri punctuated the calm with a sneeze.
‘Bless you, Mouse!’
‘Well, thank you … I still can’t believe I’m moving in with you!’ Peri groaned as she watched the streets sliding by through the window.
Oblivious to Peri’s resistance, Shirin had kept searching for a place. She had managed to persuade the college authorities that they could move out in the middle of the academic year. With her irrepressible zeal it hadn’t taken her long to find the house. As diligent as a bumblebee buzzing from flower to flower, she had paid the deposit and the first month’s rent, and arranged for the car that would carry their modest belongings. She had organized everything so seamlessly and with such ruthlessness that when the day arrived, Peri had only to grab her coat and accompany her friend out of the door.
‘Relax, we’re going to have fun,’ Shirin enthused. ‘The three of us!’
Peri caught her breath. ‘Who else is coming?’
Shirin fished a powder compact out of her bag and looked at herself in the mirror, as if she had to check her expression before she could answer. ‘Mona’s joining us.’
‘What? And you’re telling me this now?’
‘Well, when it comes to sharing a house, three is better than two.’ Shirin grinned, even she didn’t seem to believe her words.
Peri shook her head. ‘You should have asked me.’
‘Sorry, I forgot. There’s been too much on my mind.’ Shirin’s voice softened. ‘What’s the matter? I thought you liked Mona.’
‘Yes I do, but you two don’t get along!’
‘Precisely,’ said Shirin. ‘I need the challenge.’
‘What do you mean?’
If Shirin had an explanation, it would have to wait. They had arrived at the address. A Victorian terraced house in Jericho with ground-floor bay windows, high ceilings and a small rear garden.
Mona was standing on the steps by the front door, bags and boxes by her side. She waved at them and came down, her face betraying her nervousness. One glance and Peri knew that Mona had been roped in by Shirin – just as she herself had.
‘Hi, Mona,’ Shirin called out once she had paid the cab fare and jumped out.
Awkwardly the three of them stood on the pavement, exchanging greetings. Their differences contrasted with the architectural harmony of the street: Mona with her long umber coat and beige headscarf; Shirin with her full makeup, short black dress and high-heeled boots; Peri in her jeans and blue trenchcoat.
‘We’ll have a couple of copies made,’ announced Shirin, jangling the keys in her hand. ‘This is going to be exciting.’
And with those words she unlocked the door and dashed into the house. Next entered Mona, right foot first, her lips moving in a prayer. ‘Bismillah ir-rahman ir-rahim.’
Last in, Peri, sneezing and coughing. Even though she had seen photos of the house earlier and even though it was furnished, it seemed half empty. Being under the same roof with other people, interacting with them at unpredictable hours, day in day out, felt intimidating – such compulsory closeness among people who, though not lovers, shared a certain intimacy. She tried to dismiss her worries. It didn’t help. Fate was a gambler who loved raising the stakes. At the end of this experience, Peri sensed, they were either going to be great friends, sisters for life, or the whole thing was going to dissolve in fights and tears.
If houses had attitudes, this one would be that of a grumbling teenager. It never ceased to complain. The staircase squeaked, the floorboards creaked, the door hinges whinged, the kitchen cupboards squawked, the fridge rasped, and the coffee machine groaned, resenting every drop it gave up. Still, it belonged to them – as long as they paid the rent. They even had their own little garden, where they planned to have a barbecue when the weather picked up.
Of the three bedrooms upstairs, two were more or less the same size, whereas the one at the back was smaller and darker. Peri insisted on taking this one. Given her meagre contribution it seemed only fair. She suspected Shirin and Mona had, without consulting her, agreed to share the expenses. Most of the money would come from Shirin, true to her word. Mona would contribute to the bills, which would probably not exceed what she used to pay for her college room. As for Peri, she was expected to chip in only for grocery shopping. Under these circumstances she would never agree to one of the larger rooms.
‘Nonsense!’ Mona objected. ‘We must draw straws. The one who gets the shortest will have the third room.’
‘So you’re going to leave it to fate?’ Shirin said, shaking her head in wonder.
‘What’s your suggestion?’ asked Mona.
‘I’ve a better idea,’ Shirin said. ‘Let’s take turns. Every month we’ll pack up and move to the next room, like nomadic tribes. We’ll be the Huns, more peaceful. That way everyone will be equal.’
‘Well, thank you very much, both of you. But I’m having none of it,’ Peri jumped in. ‘I either get the small room or I leave.’
Shirin and Mona exchanged amused glances. They had never heard her talk like this before.
‘Fine!’ Shirin yielded. ‘But you must stop getting riled up about money. Life is too short. I mean, who knows how much I’ll owe you by the end? Maybe you’ll teach me some priceless lesson, huh?’
Over the next few hours, they retreated to their respective rooms, busying themselves with unpacking. Despite its size and sparse furnishings, her space, with a window that looked out on to the garden, instantly charmed Peri. But its biggest surprise was the heavy wooden four-poster bed enveloped by drapes. A relic from another era, she felt as if she were in a horse-drawn carriage when she lay down inside and pulled the curtains. There was also a snug alcove by the window. She placed a chair there, declaring it ‘the reading corner’.
At supper time she knocked on Mona’s door, which was opposite hers. The two of them went downstairs to the kitchen, eager to prepare their first meal together. They were surprised to find Shirin already at the table, arranging a bottle of wine, a carton of apple juice, a plate of olives and three glasses.
‘We must celebrate,’ Shirin said. ‘Three young Muslim women in Oxford! The Sinner, the Believer and the Confused.’
There was a brief silence while Mona and Peri worked out which epithet was meant for whom. Peri took her wine glass and raised it in the air, ‘To our friendship!’
‘To our collective existential crisis!’ said Shirin.
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Mona, sipping he
r apple juice.
‘Well, you’re in denial,’ said Shirin. ‘Right now we Muslims are going through an identity crisis. Especially the women. And women like us even more so!’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, those who are exposed to more than one culture! We’re asking big questions. Eat your heart out, Jean-Paul Sartre! Get a load of this! We have an existential crisis like you’ve never seen!’
‘I don’t like this kind of talk,’ said Mona as she took a seat. ‘What makes you think we’re so different from others? You speak as if we’re from another planet!’
Shirin took a rapid gulp of her wine. ‘Hello-o, wake up, sister! There are crazies out there doing really sick stuff in the name of religion, our religion. Maybe not mine, but definitely yours. Doesn’t that bother you?’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ Mona said, sticking her chin out. ‘Do you ask every Christian you meet to apologize for the horrors of the Inquisition?’
‘If we were living in the Middle Ages, then yes, I might well have done.’
‘Oh, so today’s Christians and Jews are all wingless angels?’ Mona said. ‘Have you ever been through a checkpoint in Gaza? I don’t think you have! What about the genocide in Rwanda? Srebrenica? You don’t hold all the Christians in the world responsible for those horrific killings, and you certainly should not! But why, then, blame all Muslims for the actions of a bunch of maniacs?’
‘Uhm, can you two please stop fighting?’ Peri said in between coughs. She felt a fever coming on.
Shirin persisted. ‘Sure, there are plenty of freaks among Christians and Jews as well and we have to condemn every sort of bigotry, no matter where it comes from. But you can’t deny that right now, there is more fanaticism in the Middle East than anywhere else. Can you walk around alone in Egypt without being sexually assaulted? Forget about streets after dark! I personally know women who were harassed on their way to pilgrimage. In sacred places! In plain daylight! In front of the Saudi police! Women keep quiet about these things because they’re embarrassed. And why are we embarrassed and not the molesters? There’s a helluva lot we need to question.’
‘I am questioning,’ Mona said. ‘I question history. Politics. Global poverty. Capitalism. Income gap. Brain drain. War industry. Don’t forget the appalling legacy of colonialism. Centuries of plunder and exploitation. That’s why the West is so rich! Let’s leave Islam in peace and start talking about hardcore issues!’
‘Typical,’ Shirin said, throwing her hands up in despair. ‘Blaming others for our problems.’
‘Uhm … shall we have dinner?’ Peri attempted one more time, not that she expected a response. It was a situation she knew only too well – like living with her parents all over again. Angry accusations flying back and forth; a ping-pong of misunderstandings. Even so, she found it easier to be a witness this time. The tension in the air did not affect her the way it did back home. Shirin and Mona were not her mother and her father at each other’s throats. She felt no need to mediate. Without any emotional responsibility to weigh her down, her mind was free to analyse. So she listened, secretly envying them. Despite their glaring polarity, they were equally passionate. Mona had her faith; Shirin had her fury. What did she have to hold on to?
‘All I’m saying is,’ carried on Shirin, ‘the challenges a young Muslim faces today are deeper than the challenges facing a Buddhist monk or a Mormon minister. Let’s accept that.’
‘I’m not accepting anything,’ said Mona. ‘So long as you’re biased against your own religion, we can’t have a proper conversation.’
‘Here we go again,’ said Shirin, her voice rising. ‘The moment I open my mouth and speak my mind, you’re offended. Can somebody tell me why young Muslims are so easily offended?’
‘Maybe because we’re under attack?’ said Mona. ‘Every day I have to defend myself when I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m expected to prove that I’m not a potential suicide bomber. I feel under scrutiny all the time – do you know how lonely that is?’
As though in response, the rainclouds that had been accumulating all day long broke over the town, pelting against the window. Peri thought about the River Thames nearby, swelling, trying to break free from its course.
‘You, lonely? Give me a break!’ said Shirin. ‘You have millions standing with you. Governments. Conventional religion. Mainstream media. Popular culture. You also assume you have God on your side, which must be something. How much more company can you want? You know who are the real loners in our region? Atheists. Yazidis. Gays. Drag queens. Environmentalists. Conscientious objectors. Those are the outcasts. Unless you fall into one of these categories, don’t complain about loneliness.’
‘You know nothing,’ said Mona. ‘I’ve been bullied, called names, pushed off a bus, treated as if I were dumb – all because of my headscarf. You’ve no idea how horribly I’ve been treated! It’s just a small piece of cloth.’
‘Then why do you wear it?’
‘It’s my choice, my identity! I’m not bothered by your ways, why are you bothered by mine? Who is the liberal here, think!’
‘Bloody ignorant,’ said Shirin. ‘First, it’s just one, then it’s ten, then millions. Before you know it it’s a republic of headscarves. That’s why my parents left Iran: your small piece of cloth sent us into exile!’
With every word uttered, Peri’s expression hardened. She stared down at the wooden table, chipped at one corner. She had always been drawn to scars and the imperfections beneath a smooth surface.
‘What do you think, Peri?’ Shirin suddenly asked.
‘Yes, tell us, which one of us is right?’ Mona said.
Peri fidgeted under their gaze. She glanced from one expectant face to the other, fumbling for words. In some respects Shirin was right, she said, in other respects, Mona. For instance, she agreed that life could be systematically unfair for a member of a minority – be it cultural or religious or sexual – in a closed Muslim culture, though she was also aware of the hardships facing a headscarved woman in a Western society. For her, it always depended on the context. Whoever was the disempowered, the disadvantaged side in a given place and time, she wanted to support them. Hence she was not categorically for anyone, save the weaker party.
‘That’s too abstract,’ said Shirin, drumming her fingers impatiently on the table. Judging by Mona’s expression, for once they seemed to agree. Peri’s answer, balanced though it was, had satisfied no one.
‘Let me make one thing clear,’ Mona said, once again turning to Shirin. ‘I don’t have anything against atheists. Or gays. Or drag queens. It’s their life. But I do mind Islamophobes. If you’re going to sound like a warmongering neo-con, I’d better move out of this house.’
‘Me, a neo-con?’ Shirin put down her glass with such force that wine slopped on to the table. ‘You want to leave? Fine! But that’d be taking the easy way out. We must try to latch on to what the other is saying.’
Latch on to. I must remember this phrase, Peri thought to herself.
‘I agree,’ said Mona.
‘Great,’ said Shirin. ‘We’ll write a Muslim Women’s Manifesto. It’d make a lovely logo, MWM. We’ll put everything that frustrates us into it. Fanaticism. Sexism.’
‘Islamophobia,’ said Mona.
‘I really think we should start preparing supper now,’ said Peri.
They all laughed. For a moment it was almost as though the storm had passed. It felt calm. Outside the rain had eased up; the early evening seeped into nightfall; the moon was a pearlescent talisman in the bosom of the sky. Across Port Meadow the Thames ran strong in deep swirling eddies, winding its silvery way through the darkness.
‘You know what,’ said Mona with a resigned sigh, as if she were revealing something it had taken her a while to understand. ‘You were born into a remarkable religion, you were given a wonderful Prophet as your guide, but, instead of counting your blessings and trying to be a better human being, all you do is complain.’
Shirin said, ‘Speaking of the Prophet, there are things I find –’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Mona interjected, her voice quivering for the first time. ‘You can have a go at me. That’s all right. But I can’t have people rail against my Prophet when they know next to nothing about him. Criticize the Muslim world, okay, but leave him out of it.’
Shirin huffed with frustration. ‘Why should we spare anyone from critical thinking? Especially when we’re at university!’
‘Because what you call critical thinking is self-serving nonsense!’ said Mona. ‘Because I know what you’re going to say and I also know your gaze is impure, your knowledge tainted. You can’t judge the seventh century through the lens of the twenty-first!’
‘Yes, I can, if the seventh century is trying to rule over the twenty-first!’
‘I wish you could be proud of who you are,’ said Mona. ‘You know what you are – a self-hating Muslim.’
‘Ouch,’ Shirin said in mock pain. ‘I’ve never understood people who’re proud to be American, Arab or Russian … Christian, Jewish or Muslim. Why should I feel satisfaction with something I had no role in choosing? It’s like saying I’m proud of being five foot nine. Or congratulating myself on my hooked nose. Genetic lottery!’
‘But you are quite pleased with your atheism,’ said Mona.
‘Well, I used to be a militant atheist … I’m no more, thanks to Professor Azur,’ Shirin said with a theatrical flair. ‘But I really worked hard for my scepticism. I put my mind and heart and courage into it. I separated myself from crowds and congregations! I didn’t find it dropped into my lap. Yeah, I’m proud of my journey.’
‘So it’s true, you despise your culture. You despise … me. For you, I’m either backward or brainwashed. Oppressed. Ignorant. But I’ve studied the Quran, unlike you. I thought it was profoundly eloquent, wise, poetic. I’ve studied the Prophet’s life. The more I read about him, the more I admired his personality. I find peace in my faith. Do you care? I don’t even know why I agreed to move in with you!’