by Matt Ruff
Mustafa shook his head in disbelief. “You are inviting me to join Al Qaeda?”
“This surprises you?”
“It confuses me.”
“Why?”
“You say, because I once stood up to you in your wickedness, you now wish to be my mentor in righteousness. I find your reasoning . . . counterintuitive.”
“I’m not the bully I was when you first met me,” Idris said. “I have grown. Afghanistan changed me. Working with Senator Bin Laden has changed me even more. You really should meet him, Mustafa. He is a great man, a true soldier of God. He has plans for Arabia.”
“I am sure he does,” said Mustafa. “But I rather doubt there is a place for me in those plans.”
“Mustafa—”
“Let us return to earth for a moment and talk about another holy warrior.”
“Which one?”
“Gabriel Costello.”
Idris frowned. “He was not a holy warrior.”
“You know what happened to him.”
“Yes.” Unable to suppress a small grin, Idris said: “He killed himself.”
“I think we both know that’s not true,” said Mustafa. “Costello was murdered.”
“I know no such thing. Even if he didn’t take his own life, the man was an enemy of God. To kill such a person is not murder.”
“I disagree.”
“Do you?” Idris said. “Was it murder when you shot that Lutheran?”
“Martin Hoffman posed an imminent threat to an innocent woman’s life,” Mustafa said. “Gabriel Costello was an unarmed prisoner, at the mercy of his killers.”
“The man deserved to die.”
“Did you kill him because he deserved it, or to shut him up?”
“I,” Idris began, and then caught himself. “I do not understand you. How can you even care about these terrorists?”
“I have been asking myself the same question lately,” Mustafa said. “I think the answer is that it’s not really the terrorists I care about; I care about a world in which murder becomes a commonplace. You are correct, of course, that I’ve lost my way. But if you consider the nature of my transgression, you’ll perhaps understand why I am wary of mistaking human passion for the will of God. So, no,” he concluded, “I don’t think I’d make a good Qaeda recruit.”
“Then I return to my first point,” Idris said, “which is that you are unwise to go against us. This is not a threat but a promise: If you push this investigation too hard, it will end badly, for you and anyone with you.”
“We must both do what we think is right,” Mustafa said. “How it ends is in God’s hands. But remember, Idris, you are not God. Neither is your master.” He stood up. “Peace be unto you.”
THE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA
A USER-EDITED REFERENCE SOURCE
Temporary Marriage
This page contains unverified legal claims. Readers are urged to consult appropriate authorities before accepting such claims as definitive.
Temporary marriage is a marriage with a pre-set, limited duration. Upon the expiration of the initial marriage term, the husband and wife have the option to extend it for an additional limited term, or to convert it to a permanent marriage; if they choose not to do either of these things, the marriage is automatically dissolved, with no need for a formal divorce.
LEGAL AND SOCIAL STATUS OF TEMPORARY MARRIAGE
Although it is recognized under the laws of the UAS, Persia, and many other Muslim countries, the practice of temporary marriage is highly controversial and can carry a significant social stigma, particularly for the woman involved.
Almost all religious scholars agree that temporary marriage was permitted during at least part of the lifetime of the Prophet Mohammed (peace be unto him). However, most Sunnis believe that Mohammed ultimately prohibited the practice. Most Shia, on the other hand, attribute the prohibition to the second Caliph, Umar al Khattab, whose authority they do not recognize; thus the Shia position is that temporary marriage remains lawful, if not necessarily wise . . .
Women’s rights advocates are also divided on the subject. Some radical feminists see in temporary marriage a means of reconciling women’s sexual liberation with traditional Islam. But more mainstream feminists typically regard temporary marriage, and the similar practice of traveler’s marriage, as bad bargains. According to Senator Anmar al Maysani (Unity-Iraq), “The cause of liberation would be better served by strengthening women’s marriage rights generally.”
PRACTICAL CHARACTERISTICS OF TEMPORARY MARRIAGE
· The defining characteristic of temporary marriage is, of course, the built-in time limit, which is chosen at the outset. There is no minimum duration, so a couple could decide to marry for a matter of hours, or even minutes—a fact made much of by critics who compare it to prostitution.
· Beyond the requirement to pick a time limit—and specify a bridal payment—the couple have considerable freedom in setting the terms of the marriage, including the degree of physical intimacy. Non-sexual marriages are possible. A couple wishing to learn whether they are compatible before making a permanent commitment, for example, might agree to live together without engaging in intercourse.
· Unlike a permanent marriage, a temporary marriage does not require witnesses or formal registration. Many authorities hold that the permission of the woman’s father is required, especially if she is a virgin, but in practice this rule is often ignored . . .
· A temporary wife does not count towards the limit of four wives that a man may have at a given time.
· Upon the dissolution of the marriage, the woman must undergo a waiting period to ensure that she is not pregnant before she can marry again. This waiting period is waived if the marriage was not sexual, and of course in any event, the man is free to remarry immediately.
· Any children born of a temporary marriage become the responsibility of the father.
Back at headquarters, Farouk’s secretary caught up to Amal in the hallway and pulled her aside.
“What is it, Umm Dabir?” Amal said.
“A very insistent man named Abu Salim,” Umm Dabir said, handing her a message slip with a phone number written on it. “He called on Farouk’s direct line while you were out, asking for you. I almost forwarded the call to your cell, but I decided I’d better check with you first.”
“Why? Who is he?”
“He claims he’s your ex-husband.”
“My ex-husband?” Amal shook her head. “My ex-husband’s name is Hassan.” Hassan was a Jordanian state policeman she’d met on a kidnapping case several years ago. Their marriage had been brief, with Hassan unable, despite his claims of feminist enlightenment, to accept a wife whose work took her all over the country while he remained in Amman. “He did remarry recently, but last I heard he and his new wife were expecting a daughter, not a son. Are you sure he didn’t say Abu Salimah?”
“I’m sure,” Umm Dabir said. “I asked him if he was Hassan Bakri and he got upset with me. Then he said no, he was your first husband . . .” Her eyes widened.
“Really?” Amal’s own face betrayed nothing other than a bemused puzzlement. “Tell me, did this Abu Salim’s voice sound anything like Samir’s? Or Abdullah’s perhaps?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so . . . What, you think it’s a prank call?”
“Well, obviously. Come, Umm Dabir, you’ve seen my personnel file. If I were a two-time divorcée, you’d know it.”
“Well yes, of course, but . . . What kind of a joke is that?”
“A little boy’s joke.” Amal shrugged. “You know how it is. I thought I’d gotten beyond this sort of hazing, but apparently not.” She held up the message slip. “Can I ask you to do me a favor and not tell anyone about this? A rumor will only encourage them.”
“Of course,” Umm Dabir said, incensed now on Amal’s behalf. “What do you want me to do if this ‘Abu Salim’ calls back?”
“He won’t,” Amal said. “I’ll make certain of that.”
/>
If ever she wanted to blame someone, she could always say it was Saddam Hussein’s fault.
The year Amal went away to college was the same year the federal government indicted Saddam’s uncle, Khairallah Talfah. Talfah, the former Baghdad mayor who’d resigned under a cloud of scandal, had been out of the public eye for some time, but the feds hadn’t forgotten about him. They’d been quietly building a racketeering case against him and had caught a break when Hussein Kamel, who was Saddam’s son-in-law and Talfah’s former aide, agreed to become a government witness.
In addition to Talfah, the indictment also named the current mayor, the chief and deputy police commissioners, and several high-ranking Baathists. Saddam himself was not charged—not yet—but with Hussein Kamel talking to the Attorney General, it was only a matter of time.
All of which put Amal’s father, Shamal, in a difficult position. Shamal was a Baghdad police sergeant and a Baath Union officer. It was not possible to be either of those things without also being somewhat corrupt, but where some men embraced corruption willingly, others did only what they had to do. Shamal belonged to the latter group, and he and a number of like-minded friends had talked privately for years about banding together to clean up the police force.
Now suddenly it was more than just talk. In the shake-up following the indictments, Shamal was offered a promotion to police captain and a corresponding increase in his union responsibilities. If he took the offer, there could be no more fence-sitting: He’d either have to declare openly as a reformer and risk the consequences, or admit he lacked the courage and pledge his loyalty to evil men.
Amal, only sixteen, was told none of this, but she could tell by the way her parents and her older brothers were acting that something serious was going on. One night she was awakened from a deep sleep by her mother, who told her to get dressed—they had guests. When Amal came downstairs, her father was sitting at the kitchen table with Saddam Hussein and his son Uday.
The Baath Union president was famous for his late-night calls on friends and allies—or people he hoped to make his allies. In interviews, he ascribed this habit variously to insomnia, a busy schedule that made daytime socializing difficult, and a desire for honesty. “People are more open with you in the small hours,” he said.
This was Saddam’s first such visit to Shamal. He’d come bearing gifts: a silver-plated service revolver and a case of whiskey. Shamal struggled to project an appropriate combination of emotions—honor at the social call, gratitude for the presents, blasé disregard for the felony violation—while remaining respectfully noncommittal about the proposed alliance.
It was a tough juggling act to pull off at 2 a.m., and Amal didn’t get to see how it turned out. She and her siblings were only in the room for a few minutes, just long enough to be introduced, before her mother hustled them back to bed. As Amal left the kitchen she looked over her shoulder and saw Uday staring at her backside with a smile on his lips.
Several days later, her mother sat her down to talk about college. Amal still had another year of high school to finish, after which she’d been hoping to attend BU, but now her parents had come up with an altogether different plan. Amal’s aunt Nida was on the board of the University of Lebanon, which had an early admissions program for gifted students. Given Amal’s high grades, she’d surely qualify. She could start as a freshman this fall.
“But I don’t have my high school diploma yet,” Amal said, bewildered.
“You’ll have to pass a test,” her mother explained. “That’s no problem, though—Nida will put you up over the summer and provide you with a tutor. She’s already agreed.” Before Amal could raise any other objections, her mother added: “Your father and I think it’s a wonderful opportunity. You will take it.”
Early one morning a few weeks later, Shamal and Amal climbed into the family station wagon and headed west along the interstate. Amal was full of questions she knew she couldn’t properly ask; as they drove across Anbar Province she tried to think of some magic phrasing that would allow her to ask them anyway, but every time she thought she’d come up with an opening she’d take one look at her father’s face and forget what she was going to say. Eventually, exhausted, she slipped into a doze. When she woke again, they were in Syria.
They stopped to eat at a diner outside Damascus and had what was technically a conversation, about the classes Amal was thinking of taking during her first semester. But the talk was all surface, and once they got back in the car they didn’t speak again until they reached Beirut.
They arrived at Aunt Nida’s in the late afternoon. Though they’d been on the road for ten hours, Shamal announced he wouldn’t be staying; he had work the next day and needed to get back to Baghdad. Amal sensed he was less concerned about missing work than about having to explain where he’d been.
Shamal set Amal’s bags on the sidewalk and kissed her on the forehead. “Be good,” he told her. “Make us proud.”
Amal opened her mouth to say “I will,” but what came out was: “You too.”
Aunt Nida was a successful businesswoman who’d gotten involved in politics and was now planning a run for the House of Representatives. She was a member of the Unity Party, the liberal, secular, pan-Arab coalition party founded in the late 1950s by Gamal Abdel Nasser. In Lebanon, Unity was opposed by not just one, but two Parties of God: the conservative National POG, which was dominated by Sunnis and the House of Saud, and the ultraconservative Lebanese POG, which was run almost exclusively by Shia.
The political intrigue involved in playing the two POGs off against one another made for some fascinating war stories, but left Nida with little spare time to act as a chaperone, especially once Amal (who’d aced her high school equivalency test) moved onto the U of L campus. Nida assigned one of her sons to check in on Amal periodically, but for the most part she was left to look after herself, in a way that would have been unimaginable had she remained in Baghdad.
Her two roommates were Jemila and Iman, both arts majors but otherwise as different as could be. Jemila, a Beirut native who was studying theater, was what was known in the parlance of the day as a “modern” girl, a term that could mean either “sophisticated free spirit,” or, said another way, “whore.” Jemila had a steady stream of boyfriends, and it was the boyfriends who most often used “modern” in its second sense—with a smile when Jemila first met them, and with anger or tears when, inevitably, she dumped them.
Iman came from Khafji, an oil town on the Gulf coast. She was studying to be a documentary filmmaker. Iman was also a “ninja”: Outside the dorm and the women’s gym where she took her exercise, she wore a black abaya with a niqab veil that left only her eyes visible. “Ninja,” like “modern,” was a term with multiple connotations, but anyone who assumed from her style of dress that Iman was a sheltered hick soon learned otherwise.
When Amal professed her ambition to become a cop like her dad, it was Iman who suggested she apply to the Bureau. “The ABI is more open to women than most local police forces,” she said. “It still won’t be easy, but you’ll at least have a chance. And you’ll get to chase bank robbers.”
“It’s not bank robbers I want to go after,” Amal said. But the idea was a good one.
Iman took self-defense courses at the gym on Sunday afternoons. Amal began going with her. Then she heard about a West Beirut gun range offering an introductory women’s pistol-shooting class, and on a whim decided to check it out. She turned out to be a natural with firearms.
Jemila meanwhile got the lead in a campus production of Hair. She convinced Amal to try out for a bit part in the play, that of an overzealous Halal agent. Amal wore a fake mustache and beard, and ran around stage during one of the musical numbers trying unsuccessfully to slip a burqa over Jemila’s head.
On Friday nights when her mother called, Amal said nothing about these extracurricular activities. She felt a little guilty, but she also knew her mother wasn’t telling her everything either. According to the national
news, Baghdad was in an uproar: Thanks to the testimony of Hussein Kamel, Khairallah Talfah had been convicted on all counts, and the Attorney General was now talking openly about bringing charges against Saddam. This in turn led to a rash of Hussein Kamel jokes, like “What do Hussein Kamel and a migrating goose have in common? They’re both found floating in the Tigris!”
Opening night of Hair, a student member of the Lebanese POG threw a smoke bomb onstage during the first act, and the theater had to be evacuated. As Amal stood outside with the rest of the cast waiting for the fire marshal to give the all clear, she noticed a handsome boy watching her from the edge of the crowd. He was laughing, and at first she thought he might be a friend of the smoke-bomber, but then he drew a finger across his upper lip and she realized the source of his amusement was her costume-mustache, which she still wore. Then she laughed too and he came over and introduced himself.
His name was Anwar. He was a senior, majoring in government. His family was originally from Iraq, but his father was a diplomat, so he’d spent most of his youth in Riyadh or abroad in Persia. It was while living in Tehran that he’d discovered a passion for the arts, not just theater and music but poetry. In fact he and some of his friends had an informal poetry club that met at a café on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Perhaps Amal would like to drop by sometime and hear some of their verses?
She accepted his invitation, dragging Jemila to the café with her for moral support. She tried to get Iman to come along as well, but Iman declined, saying she didn’t go on dates. When Amal insisted that it wasn’t a date, just a “social gathering,” Iman said, “I especially don’t go on dates that aren’t acknowledged as dates.”