by Ali al-Muqri
He taught us how to gain glory
So that we took command of the land by force.
Demands are not met by wishing
The world can only be won through struggle.
Could the song have another meaning? Didn’t the Arabic teacher at the academy tell us the meaning of a line of poetry is in the belly of the poet?
Nothing is beyond the reach of a people
When their feet are firmly in the stirrups.
Such beautiful words . . . How slow am I? Why haven’t I appreciated the beauty of these words before? There’s nothing a people can’t do if they set their sights on it and really go for it. Nothing is impossible.
Nothing is beyond the reach of a people
When their feet are firmly in the stirrups.
Abu al-Zahra, I’ve overstepped my rank
In praising you, yet I seek the honour.
She sings these last two lines so beautifully – how fluidly she moves from one to the next! Her voice is magnificent . . . the way she sings ‘Abu al-Zahra’ – ’father of al-Zahra’ – a name for Muhammad, peace be upon him. Al-Zahra . . . as in Fatima Al-Zahra, the Prophet’s daughter? I’m going to play this bit over and over again.
He taught us how to gain glory
So that we took command of the land by force.
Before ‘Abd al-Raqeeb found religion, he’d tell me: ‘If you want to play the game and have a presence then you’ve got to play at the designated time, exactly like in football. Don’t play in stoppage or extra time. And if you can’t play at the right time, then find another game to play. Never allow yourself to be sidelined.’
Whenever he drank one of his ‘quarts,’ as he called them, he would transform into another being, like a bird with boundless freedom.
He used to get the quart of moonshine from a friend, as he liked to tell me. Once back in his room on the roof, he’d use his teeth to tear open a corner of the sealed plastic bag his friend had delivered the quart in, and decant it into a plastic bottle. He’d slowly sip it, after diluting it a little with water. With the exception of Lula and I, no one else knew about Raqeeb’s weekly habit. When he drank he was always careful to keep his distance from Mother and Father. Sometimes, he would break with tradition and drink almost every day, but this usually only happened when his social life was particularly busy or he’d managed to pester Lula into loaning him the money for a quart – a cursed loan, as I used to tell them.
I don’t know. When he told me one of his ‘brothers’ had asked to marry me, had this been his idea of playing at the ‘right time’? Or was it that the only opportunity he’d found for me to play was in stoppage time – lost time?
Demands are not met by wishing
The world can only be won through struggle.
I never really had the opportunity to play in the first place, so I never really had a choice. I agreed to marry ‘Abd al-Raqeeb’s friend, having no idea what role I would play in the game. ‘It’s better to play in stoppage time than not at all,’ I tried to convince myself.
‘Abd al-Raqeeb insisted that my suitor come and take a look at me before the marriage contract was completed. He said this was an obligation in the eyes of religion. I agreed, and got ready. But when my groom turned up – with his skinny young body and long wispy beard – he didn’t look at me, didn’t so much as steal a glance in my direction. He seemed painfully shy, and spent the few minutes or so he was in our house looking down at the floor, his eyes almost closed, murmuring: ‘Praise be to God. Praise be to God. May God choose what is best for us and what pleases Him’.
Demands are not met by wishing
My wedding night wasn’t easy. I reread the books about marriage and married life according to the Quran and the Prophet’s example, but they didn’t really prepare me. They helped me get over the usual embarrassment a bride faces on her wedding night, but they didn’t mention anything about the kind of duties that need to be performed before sexual intercourse can lawfully take place. While the groom was performing his ablutions, preparing to pray, I changed out of my wedding dress and into my nightie, put on some perfume and touched up my make-up, as Mother and her friends had advised me. As soon as I lay down on the bed, my new husband Abu Abdullah spread the prayer rug out on the bedroom floor and prayed. ‘May God accept your prayers,’ I said to him. ‘May God accept all our prayers,’ he replied, and added, ‘May God Guide you. Come and pray for God to bless our marriage and grant us virtuous off-spring, God willing.’
I did as he asked – well, it was more like an order. Then I checked my make-up again and gave myself another spray of perfume. He took off his short white tunic, but kept on his vest and the baggy white trousers that reached down to his ankles. He looked embarrassed, and tried to avert his eyes from my body. The flimsy nightie stopped at the top of my thighs and only partially covered my breasts. I tried to draw his attention to the details of my naked body – my legs and thighs, my long hair that flowed in two plaits down to my waist. I smiled expectantly, my neck anointed with fine Arabic scents prescribed by my sharia-abiding sisters.
But instead of leaning in to inhale my scent he just stood there, repeating, ‘Praise be to God. Praise be to God. God has willed it. Praise be to God.’ I didn’t know of anything in sharia that should have prevented him from opening his eyes to look at me. He sat down on the bed beside me while I lay on my back, waiting for him to take the initiative.
Nothing is beyond the reach of a people
When he bent down on his knees and pulled open my legs, I remembered what I’d read about foreplay. But when he just pulled down my knickers and yanked down his trousers I realised that foreplay was just an idea in books, and nothing more. Even the cultural films I’d seen didn’t seem to feature much foreplay.
His member looked lifeless, comatose. Even so, he kept hold of it with his left hand and pushed it towards the place between my thighs. Before embarking on this step, he’d recited various prayers and verses from Quran, beginning with: ‘I take refuge in God from the Devil, in the name of God the most Gracious, the most Merciful.’ I was embarrassed because I didn’t know how to respond. He seemed to be observing some religious practice that was either compulsory or strongly favoured by sharia.
‘Oh God, shield us from Satan and keep him away from us and from the things You bestow upon us. O God, I ask You for the goodness within her and the goodness that she is inclined towards, and I seek refuge with you from the evil to which she is inclined.’
I’d once heard there was a prayer called ‘the marriage prayer.’ Was this what he was reciting?
Pushing these thoughts aside, I began to move my lips, trying to give the impression I was quietly reciting prayers and verses from the Quran. I was worried my ignorance of things would upset him, especially if they were ordained by sharia. But none of this would matter once we were done with the preamble and came together in the act. I imagined that he would most likely expect me to lie still, a passive object, while he engaged in the act. ‘I take refuge in God from Satan, in the name of God the most Gracious, the most Merciful,’ he repeated at least ten times, while he held his member and pushed it towards my vagina. It wasn’t long before I realised he was incapable of crossing the threshold, even though I’d opened the door wide, without him even bothering to knock.
Demands are not met by wishing
The world can only be won through struggle.
Mother devised a special diet for Abu Abdullah that would make him strong and help him overcome his difficulties. She was so concerned about his impotence that she told Lula about it, even though I’d begged her not to. Whenever we met it was always the first topic of conversation. Mother would whisper, ‘Has he managed it yet or is it still no better?’ ‘No better,’ I’d reply with a giggle, loud enough for Lula to hear, so she wouldn’t ask me the same question in her own special way: ‘Hey Pipsqueak, what’s up? Any zeet-meet in your life yet?’
Lula had zeet-meet on the brain. She handed me a pill and
told me to dissolve it in a glass of orange juice and give it to Abu Abdullah without telling him. At first I was hesitant, but for how long was I supposed to go without zeet-meet? I wanted to feel alive, to taste life.
Abu Abdullah ate a lot of Dawani honey, which he said was brought specially for him from the Hadramaut region in the south of Yemen. I would also see him eating some sort of paste from a jar labelled ‘Groom Mix.’ One day a package arrived for him with something small and red inside. ‘This is a Korean herb. They say it’s very effective, God willing.’ He took a piece of it and after half an hour took another. ‘I’m scared there’ll be side effects if I take too much,’ he said, and continued to reach into the packet until he’d eaten the whole lot. He was irritable and depressed. He’d staked a lot on the Korean herb and when it failed he seemed to reach the limits of despair.
Perhaps for once I genuinely felt sorry for him. ‘It’s OK, my love. It’s doesn’t matter. Physical intimacy isn’t everything. Let’s wash, and say an extra prayer, then get some sleep,’ I said.
That was the first time I had called Abu Abdullah ‘my love.’ The second time was when he had a panic attack and fainted after taking the blue pill I’d dissolved in his orange juice. I was terrified – I thought he was dead. I cursed Lula and her stupid advice, and I broke down, wailing and sobbing words of affection I’d never used before. When ‘Abd al-Raqeeb and Father rushed him to the hospital I told myself that if he lived I’d never get fed up with him again. I felt I’d lost the man of my dreams, forever. Strangely, this feeling didn’t leave me, even after he returned from hospital alive and well, but actually got stronger with each passing day. I started to feel like a widow, but not a widow who had lost her husband – one who hadn’t even been truly married in the first place.
Nothing is beyond the reach of a people
When their feet are firmly in the stirrups.
‘Why?’ I asked Abu Abdullah. He’d just told me: ‘From now on there’ll be no more university.They make so many mistakes when they teach sharia, especially how they teach it to the harem.’ ‘Harem’ was his way of referring to women. We’d never discussed my studies, and I hadn’t felt the need to ask him if I could go and register for my second year. He just came out with it, and wouldn’t answer me when I asked him why. He’d just say ‘A hurma must obey her husband.’
His words made me think of Sheikh al-Marwi’s fatwa. Perhaps Abu Abdullah sensed from my expression that I wasn’t entirely convinced by his decision. He quickly added: ‘There are differing opinions among the jurists and the religious scholars on the subject. Many of them believe educating a girl over the age of nine is inappropriate, because that’s when she becomes a hurma. Her place is in the home, and she shouldn’t leave it other than for the grave.’
I knew opinions differed. I can still remember what the jurisprudence professor told us in our first lecture at university: ‘A man might be filled with pride when the doctors tell him his hurma is pregnant with a boy, but what he does not realise is that God has the power to turn a male foetus into a female at any moment.’ A female student, clearly miffed at the professor’s words, muttered: ‘The doctors themselves could change a male into a female or vice versa.’ This was Faten, who I’d get to know later. The professor didn’t hear her. He continued his lecture; or rather, he continued to issue his fatwas. We can listen to what he said on my mobile phone – someone sent me the recording by Bluetooth.
A Mobile Phone Recording (Fatwas 2)
‘It is not permitted for a pregnant hurma to be examined, whether by a male or a female doctor. To examine her is to expose a hurma, and this is forbidden. Only infidels allow such things. If she is pregnant with a male foetus – the medical equipment having established this – and later, by God’s will, the foetus transforms into a female, then here is the crime. And this crime is twofold. It is doubled because two hurmas have been violated – the pregnant hurma and the hurma in her womb. We have inherited our venerable Islamic customs from our fathers and our grandfathers and their fathers before them. We know that a woman remains a hurma even in death. She is mentioned by name only when this is unavoidable, because to mention her is an act of immodesty, and modesty is a part of faith. A man without faith is a man without modesty. Any man who talks about his hurma has lost his modesty and therefore his faith.’
Even without the recording, I can clearly remember writing in my notebook the last thing the professor said: ‘The female is a hurma before birth, in life, and in death.’
Abu al-Zahra, I’ve overstepped my rank
In praising you, yet I seek the honour.
No man can claim eloquence
Unless he finds its source in you.
I have praised kings and risen high in their esteem
But when I praise you I rise above the clouds.
I pray to God for the children of my religion
May He hear and grant my prayers
In times of trouble and adversity
You are the Muslims’ sole refuge.
I no longer left the house. Instead, I spent my days cooking and cleaning, usually while listening to Quran or cassette sermons. I stopped only when it was time to pray. In addition to the five obligatory prayers, I’d also pray the optional duha, witr, and tajahud prayers, as well as the decisionmaking prayer, said at times of difficulty or confusion. I also performed the prayer of need, which I heard some religious scholars have prohibited, considering it an innovation, and not an original part of the faith. But I felt a real need to say this prayer. An extra prayer won’t hurt God. And anyway, I said to myself, isn’t it called the ‘prayer of need’?
I prayed that God would meet my unspoken need. That he would make my husband strong and we could enjoy a happy, contented life together. Of course, I never said this prayer in front of Abu Abdullah.
Sometimes I’d switch on the mobile phone Abu Abdullah had given me. It had lots of recorded lectures saved on it, most of which were on the Muslim woman and her duties. There was also a complete recording of the Quran, as well as its exegesis, some prayers, and various sayings of the Prophet.
I never really felt busy, or that the housework took up all my time. But then, I never seemed to have any free time either – it was as though even the void that might have filled my days was missing.
Walls are walls, but being cut off from my studies was like being cut off from life. Was I bored? I kept asking myself this, but I wasn’t sure how people got bored or what they felt like when they were. If I had been bored, or felt something like boredom, then maybe I would have done something about it. I felt that I was nothing, and that the things around me were nothing too.
*
I finally found an opportunity to put Lula’s advice into practice. She said it was guaranteed to give me a taste of the zeet-meet. That night, as soon as Abu Abdullah had finished reciting the optional tajahud prayer, as he did each night an hour before bed, he dropped to his knees, sobbing, and called on God to make the Muslims victorious. Before marrying him I’d never seen anyone pray like this.
Every night he would address God as though debriefing Him on the latest events in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Chechnya, Somalia and Palestine. Abu Abdullah would ask God to make His Muslim servants victorious against the infidels. I used to wish he’d also ask God to give him the vigour and vitality for married life, but he never did.
Eventually, I came to know his prayers by heart. So that night, even though his sobs muffled his words, I knew what he was saying: ‘O Lord, have mercy on your servants, and save them from the fires of the infidels, from the oppression of the misguided people. Bring victory against the infidels to your servants in Peshwar, Tora Bora . . . O Lord, kill the Christians and the Jews. Do not allow them to overcome us. O Lord, uproot them and send flocks of the fierce Ababil birds against them. Defeat them with your unseen soldiers. Overcome them with the army of Islam, the army of Muhammad, the army of mujahideen who fight in your cause . . . O Almighty God! O Most Strong! O Protector! O Suprem
e in Greatness! O Avenger! O Subduer! O Most Great. My Lord, annihilate them, leave none of them standing! O God . . . O God . . . O God . . . O Answerer of prayers . . . O Defender of your servants . . . O Lord . . . O Lord, answer my prayers . . . O God . . . O Lord of the Mighty Throne.’
He was all pleading, his voice quavering and choked by his sobbing. I’d never been in a position to take the initiative before. I thought about trying to comfort him; stroking or holding him, arousing him so that things would go the way Lula believed they would – zeet-meet. I reached out my hand to quietly uncap the bottle of special perfume and splashed most of it over my neck and breasts, and under my arms. Then I slipped out of bed and stood behind him, stroking the back of his bowed head: ‘What’s wrong, darling? God will make them victorious. He is the All-Hearing, the All-Answering. He will lead His servants in Afghanistan to victory. He won’t let them down. He’s the All-Powerful. Come, darling. Come, sit up. Take heart. Come to bed. Come, my man, my prince, my dear. Come my king in this world. Lie beside me and hold me. Forget your worries and show me what you can do. Unsheathe your sword. Come. Get up.’
I led him to the bed, but the only words he seemed to have heard were ‘lie beside me.’
The perfume bottle remained open until the following night at around the same time, when Abu Abdullah had finished his prayers and supplications. He seemed less worked up, more composed than he had been the previous night.
‘Tomorrow I’m taking you to the home of the group’s deputy chief. You’ll be introduced to his wife. She’s going to prepare you to become a defender of your faith and bring you closer to God.’ I didn’t say anything. I noticed my hand had reached out automatically to put the cap back on the perfume bottle.
*
As soon as we got to the deputy chief’s house Abu Abdullah directed me to a door on the ground floor – or what he called the harem’s wing. I knocked on the door while he climbed an iron ladder to the upper level. When the guard at the main gate had seen me with Abu Abdullah he had averted his eyes, but the girl who opened the door to the harem’s wing just stared at me, until I thought there must be something odd about my appearance.