Hurma

by Ali al-Muqri

  ‘Aha, zig-zig is zeet-meet,’ I said, remembering Lula’s explanation of the same act.

  ‘Zig-zig. I don’t understand zeet-meet,’ she said, and tried to explain it in words she thought I might understand: ‘You and Abu Abdullah. You and he together make zig-zig.’ Again, she made the same gesture with her finger and fist. I was fairly certain I understood what she meant but she was convinced I still hadn’t got it.

  ‘You understand. Abu Abdullah come you and zig-zig. You like this wife. You understand?’

  This was my opportunity to find out what had happened between them on their wedding night. ‘How were you? Did Abu Abdullah bring zig-zig?’

  ‘No Abu Abdullah no bring. Abu Abdullah no make zig-zig.’

  I felt relief. There’d been no zig-zig between Abu Abdullah and Andeera, just like there’d been no zeet-meet between Abu Abdullah and I.

  ‘What’s this? Why didn’t Abu Abdullah didn’t bring zig-zig? That’s not right,’ I said.

  ‘Why . . . Abu Abdullah bring you zig-zig?’ she wondered in surprise, although I got the feeling she already understood the nature of the relationship between Abu Abdullah and I, just as she understood her relationship with me, even if only a night had passed since their wedding. She leaned her head back as though remembering something: ‘You know, zig-zig not so important. You relax like this.’

  ‘How can I relax – how can you – when there’s no zig-zig?’

  ‘You, I understand a lot. You tired. Me, no. I sleep. My husband comes zig-zig.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How can you sleep and Abu Abdullah bring zig-zig?’

  ‘No, no. You don’t understand. I sleep. Other husband bring zig-zig.’

  ‘What, your second husband? Are you married to two men?’

  ‘Other husband, me India. Other I love. I love him husband. I in Riyadh. In India I have husband in China. I sleep. My husband sleep together.’

  ‘You mean, you meet your Indian husband in your dreams?’

  ‘Dreams. You understand. Half dreams. Half sleep. Half no sleep.’

  ‘Between dreams and waking. You mean fantasies. But this is serious. How can you be married to two men, Abu Abdullah and an Indian?’

  ‘I am Muslim. I have four husbands.’

  I laughed out loud and was sure everyone on the plane must have heard me. For a moment I thought Andeera didn’t understand the sharia’s position on marriage, but then I realised she was laughing too. Even so I was disturbed that, despite embracing Islam and marrying Abu Abdullah, she was still connected to her previous husband.

  ‘I have Indian husband. Sheikh come yesterday. He speak, say, India marriage not right. India husband infidel. You Muslim. You wife of Muslim. You and Abu Abdullah married together.’

  I didn’t know if it was permitted for her to marry a Muslim man if she was already married to a non-Muslim or an infidel, as the sheikh had said. I understood from Andeera that her Indian husband followed a philosophical path related to yogic meditation in India, and that their guru had sent him to China to spread their ideas there. She pulled out a small book that she said contained sacred Indian wisdom. I didn’t understand her translation of some things, but I understood that they call for mastery of the senses, and teach that desire is an enemy of wisdom. They also call for liberation from binaries like pain and pleasure, love and hate, failure and success. All these things are equal and their source is the senses. We must avoid selfishness and work without coveting reward and personal gain or fear of punishment.

  It wasn’t just the message in what Andeera was saying that made me feel at ease; there was something about the way she spoke and the clarity of her voice – despite her broken Arabic — which I found very comforting. But what really left a deep impression on me was Andeera’s appearance after we’d sat a while in silence. I noticed she was crying and trembling, almost as though writhing against invisible thorns. I imagined that as she cried with joy, she was witnessing a great miracle, as though God had appeared to her. As though she were close to Him, between His hands.

  In Cairo, we stayed in a large house next door to our Egyptian host family. A gate in the wall between the two courtyards connected the properties. A little corridor ran between the gate and our front door. It was shaded by a trellis woven with flowers so that anyone looking down from the rooms above couldn’t see who was passing though. About an hour after we arrived, Abu Abdullah went off somewhere with our host, who had picked us up from the airport. Andeera and I decided to get some rest, and I slumped down into a comfy chair in the lounge and snoozed. At the sound of a key turning in the door I awoke with a jolt. I’d locked it as well as the outer door, and had even slid the bolts across. The key stopped moving in the lock and my breathing calmed. I was about to doze off again when a door on the other side of the room suddenly swung open and I sat up with a start. A woman dressed in a long Egyptian robe stepped into the room. She greeted me with the formal Islamic greeting and I realised she was our host’s wife. She’d come in this way because she was afraid someone might be watching the house and discover who was inside. She told me there were three doors and that I only knew two of them: the third was apparently her secret.

  The fright I’d got from her sudden entrance left me feeling uneasy for the rest of our stay, and I never really had a sense of being in Cairo. I struggled to stay interested in conversation, the words of our host’s wife passing right over me. It was only when she and Andeera would laugh out loud that I’d realise she’d told a joke. I’d humour her with a smile and nod my head to seem interested in what she was saying.

  I came to realise that our stop in Riyadh had been in order for us to receive instructions from some jihadi leadership or its supporters, and that we were to convey them to the mujahideen in Afghanistan. More importantly though, as I would realise later, we were to transport money and other items to them – the idea being that Abu Abdullah and I wouldn’t arouse suspicion.

  During the week we spent in Cairo, Abu Abdullah kept the keys to our luggage safe. Over the seven days we were there he repeatedly opened the suitcases, each time taking out a few of my make-up compacts and perfume bottles. I was mystified by his sudden interest in my perfume and make-up, and I had no idea where he was taking them.

  But no wiser judgment than God’s have I witnessed

  And no door other than His have I sought.

  In Sudan, it all seemed to make sense. In Riyadh and Cairo, I’d only really had a vague idea of our purpose, but in Khartoum I felt like I was actually a member of the team. Abu Abdullah told me he would be in constant training throughout the ten days we were to spend there, and that the Sudanese harem would take me to train with them separately every day, too. But Andeera wouldn’t be joining me.

  Abu Abdullah opened the suitcases only once in Sudan to take out a compact and two bottles of perfume. ‘Have you got another hurma? Did you marry her in secret? Do you bring her perfume and make-up?’ I teased. ‘Yes, I have another beloved,’ he said solemnly. ‘She is the first and the last. I love her and desire her above all else. She is martyrdom in God’s cause.’ ‘God’s blessings,’ I responded. His words encouraged me, strengthening my own resolve for jihad.

  I learned, from the women, how to make food from trees and shrubs during a siege, as well as some basic first aid, such as how to dress wounds and broken bones with Islamic remedies: plants, spices and herbs – even camel and cow’s urine. When I heard about the benefits of cow dung, I thought of Andeera, who Abu Abdullah had insisted remain in the house, for reasons known only to him. One of the women instructed me on sexual relations during jihad: ‘In times of peace, it must be limited to once a week and even then one should be careful to avoid over-exertion. But in times of war, it is prohibited altogether because the man must save his stamina for the enemy, so that he stays strong and fired-up. Sex weakens a man and leaves him passive and peaceful.’ Most of them wanted to go to jihad and considered me lucky. I learnt that there are very few female Arab mujahideen.


  What left the deepest impression on me during the training sessions were the religious songs I learned from the women – they were so rousing! The women told me that female mujahideen can enter the battle behind the men and beat the drums, singing:

  ‘The volunteers are like beautiful flowers

  The servants of God are heading for jihad.’

  One of the songs addresses the troops in battle, calling on them to martyr themselves and enter Paradise, where they will encounter the houris – the beautiful maidens of Paradise that God has promised them. The women sing it as though they themselves were the houris:

  ‘Oh soldiers of God . . . Oh soldiers of God

  We are the maidens of Paradise in the Gardens of God.’

  One of my favourites was a light and catchy number:

  ‘Victory comes to the brave

  Rise for jihad.’

  Or:

  ‘I’m Islamic . . . I’m Islamic.’

  I began to enthuse about the songs to Abu Abdullah, but he quickly shut me up. ‘They are a prohibited innovation. It is not permitted for a woman to sing them or to mix with men in battle.’ He went on to remind me that the Prophet tells us a woman’s jihad is her obedience to her husband.

  Side B of the song (replay)

  From its gardens I gathered roses and thorns

  And from its cup I tasted honey and resin.

  By the time we reached Afghanistan I’d already begun to forget the hardships of the journey. For the first time in my life I was about to do something that actually mattered, something tangible that would make me feel like I existed.

  Abu Abdullah had given us back our original passports in Pakistan, telling us the Saudi passports we’d travelled there on had served their purpose. Andeera noticed that the stamps in our passports suggested we’d travelled directly from Saudi Arabia to Pakistan, and we wondered what was going on.

  Andeera and I were met by a couple of Afghani women who dressed us in traditional Afghani clothes. One of them accompanied us into Afghanistan, along with four other women we hadn’t met before. They were wearing a lot of gold too, like we were. Together, we took a corner in the back of the truck. Most of the passengers were men, so we huddled together in our Afghani clothes, behind the suitcases and out of view of the seven men, who were indistinguishable – even Abu Abdullah – in their Afghani dress. I didn’t recognise the names of any of the towns we passed through or stopped off at, but I’ll never forget names like Peshwar, Kabul, Qandahar, and Tora Bora. The men spoke of these places throughout the journey, but we women had no idea if we’d actually reached them or if it was just talk.

  They took us to a narrow mountain cave. We slept on worn blankets, barely visible in the dim glow of a small lamp. ‘In the thick of jihad, the mujahideen hadn’t found the time, not even one second, to clean its blackened glass,’ I murmured to myself in the dark. I tried to imagine what the morning would bring, and picture the role I might play. I couldn’t sleep, even though I was exhausted from all the travelling. I imagined myself under a hail of rockets and gunfire, carrying an injured mujahid with the help of another sister. We lay him down in a tent, and then she rushes back to help others, while I remain by his side. I gently pull his lose cotton trousers down as he cries out in pain. I deftly put into practice the first aid I learnt in Sudan. Around me the women call me a mujahida, a female fighter in God’s cause. I’m not just a hurma anymore, not just Abu Abdullah’s hurma. No one calls me hurma anymore – as we treat the wounded we call out to each other by our actual names: Khawla, come here; Aisha, pass me that; Here you go, Zaynab; Give me that, would you, Khadija? Sumiyya, hand me— Hafsa, take a look at this wound. God bless you, our sister in jihad. Our mujahideen brothers are in peril, they’re being martyred one after the other. Over here, Umm Misaab. Come forward, take up your weapons. The time for jihad has come. Fight the infidels!

  ‘Come to prayer. Come to Prayer. Prayer is better than sleep . . .’ the call to prayer rang out. I thought I was still dreaming, or perhaps I was having a waking dream, one that continued whether I was asleep or awake.

  But no wiser judgment than God’s have I witnessed

  And no door other than His have I sought.

  It was a terrifying day, bigger than a dream. It was a day of blood, fire and death; a day of rockets, when bombs dropped from planes and explosions froze us in our tracks, paralysed. What was this formidable power those Western crusaders possessed? Where is Your power, my Lord? Where areYour invisible soldiers? WillYou protectYour mujahideen, and not forsake them?

  I didn’t know what to do. I felt useless. All my dreams were powerless in the face of such a terrifying force. Was it a divine force sent by God to test the mujahi-deen? God forbid that He would do such a thing to His servants.

  Andeera tried to calm me down – or that’s what it looked like: I couldn’t hear anything other than the sounds of near-by explosions. Afterwards I was told that it had been a missile strike. My head, my whole body exploded with a thousand questions. My thoughts tortured me: How could all that power, all those high-tech deadly weapons be put in the hands of infidels, while the Muslims were so weak? Was it a reckoning for the Muslims because they had lapsed in their faith, lapsed in everything? Or was it a trial from God?

  Several times a voice called out ‘The women are to gather in the first tent to the south.’ It sounded as though something special was expected to happen to the women at sunset, and darkness had already begun to set in.

  Nothing in life is worthier than kindness

  Its blessings outlive the giver.

  We learnt we were to leave the battleground, but we didn’t know where we were going. Andeera and I collected our suitcases from the wooden hut they’d been kept in, and I also took a small bag Abu Abdullah had given me. He’d been very clear that I must take good care of it and in that moment I didn’t know what else to do with it, since he wasn’t to hand.

  We left the male mujahideen to their fate: a battle in which defeat – or what some thought was defeat – became a synonym for victory. Defeat, including death, was victory for them, because it meant martyrdom, dying for God’s cause.

  We were a group of women crammed into an old Land Rover, its driver speeding us to an unknown destination.

  I was never able to fulfill my dream, whether in reverie or reality, since I spent barely a night and a day at the front. Apart from our group there’d been no other women there. I was told the rest of the women were in a place far from the frontline. Their husbands visited them when their commanders gave them leave. Only a few of the women ever went to the front to sleep with their husbands, and even then only when their husbands couldn’t leave their posts. Most of the mujahideen didn’t bring their wives to jihad. Some of them married Afghani or Pakistani women, or the daughters of Arab mujahideen who’d been here a long time with their families. I learnt from the other women that we, Andeera and I, were only ever meant to stay there one night. Once the gold was collected from us and the suitcases full of make-up and perfume were handed over to the position’s commander, all of us women were to go on to a nearby town where the harem were gathered. This confirmed my suspicions. The gold jewellery I’d carried on me had obviously been sent by supporters of the mujahi-deen to finance their activities, and the make-up compacts and perfume bottles contained materials needed by the mujahideen to make weapons to use against the infidels.

  The aerial bombardment meant we couldn’t take the direct route to where the rest of the harem where, but had to go on a long detour through the mountains.

  A couple of hours into our night journey we came to a sudden stop. The blinding glare of flashlights flooded the car. Six men approached us, dressed in military uniforms decorated with an insignia I didn’t recognise. They examined us by the light of their torches, exchanging words in a language I didn’t understand. Simultaneously, the rear doors and the back door were flung open. A woman was pulled out from each. The men led them away towards the boulder-strewn roadside
, one of them yelling at the driver what must have been an order before disappearing with the women. The other three men remained where they were, silent and alert, guns at the ready. The driver looked Afghani but we didn’t know if the troops were Afghani, Iranian, Pakistani or of some other nationality.

  The soldiers returned the three women to the car, then they searched our belongings, snatching the jewellery from our necks, wrists and ears. The only thing spared was the bag Abu Abdullah had entrusted me with, which I’d hidden between my legs. I think it must have been too small for them to notice.

  The men told the driver to go. Back on the road, the way women who’d been taken were sobbing told us they’d been raped.

  The little boy who was riding up front talked to the driver in an Afghani language. He turned to us and said in Arabic ‘He says he’s taking us across the border into Iran.’

  Strangely, it was only after the incident on the roadside that we started talking. I was sitting in the middle row of seats, next to an Egyptian who was married to an African American mujahid, and a Moroccan who was the wife of a French mujahid. Andeera was in the back row, jammed in between a Kurdish woman and two other women who were also married to mujahideen. The oldest of them was a Syrian woman who had two children with her. One of them, a girl, kept climbing over the back of the seats onto our laps. She must have been around seven or eight years old – it was hard to tell as she wore an abaya, headscarf and veil. The other child, a boy of about ten, was sitting next to the driver.

  The Syrian woman told me that when her husband, Abu Sadeeq, had wanted to marry a Saudi mujahid’s daughter in Afghanistan, he’d had no choice but to divorce her – his first wife and mother of his two children – because Islam only permits four wives and he already had three others, one of whom lived with her in the same house in Afghanistan. The third wife lived at home with her mother and the fourth lived in Saudi.