Beyond the Sand Dune

by Asen Djinah

  ‘How to convince Abbi?’ she kept thinking, trying to figure a way to sway her father into allowing Nabila home.

  Occasionally, Nayila would sleep over at her two cousins’ tent, although the following morning she would feel guilty for leaving her father alone for the night. She felt as though she was breaking the promise she had made to her mother, neglecting to look after him. Despite being close to her two cousins, there was a deep loneliness inside her that she felt only Nabila could fill. Whenever she visited the toddler at Kulthum’s tent, her heart would fill up and she was at her happiest.

  One particular night, Nayila woke up suddenly, feeling a dampness in her undergarments. Her first thought was that she had wet herself and felt ashamed. She lifted up her clothes and by the weak light of the single oil lamp she kept alight to keep her company, she peered under the covers. She screamed when she saw blood on her undergarments between her legs.

  ‘It’s just like ummi,’ she thought utterly terrified and screamed again.

  Her father came running, still half asleep.

  ‘What is it, Nayila? You had a bad dream?’ Abdul-Basir asked.

  ‘Abbi, I am going to die like ummi. I don’t want to die,’ the frightened girl cried.

  Abdul-Basir cast a quick glance in the direction of her pointing finger and immediately understood the situation.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘I will get Aunt Salma to help you. Don’t worry, it is okay. I promise you are not going to die,’ he reassured the frightened girl.

  The crying Nayila was shocked and indignant to see her father smiling.

  Shortly afterwards, Aunt Salma came into the tent and sat with her while her father went back to sleep.

  ‘You are no longer a little girl. You are a woman now,’ she said as she patiently explained to Nayila the onset of puberty.

  ‘The bleeding will happen every month for the rest of your life and usually lasts between four to five days. Every woman has to suffer this burden. It’s our kismet,’ she said.

  After showing Nayila how to keep herself clean, Aunt Salma took her niece to her tent. The following day, her two cousins laughed when they learned about the incident.

  ‘We got scared too the first time it happened to us,’ they said to reassure the young girl.

  Nayila realised it was part of nature, just like her pet goat Abitha had to mate with the buck and live her own life. She suddenly felt all grown up and resolved to quit playing with the other girls now that she was a woman. Overnight, she became a different person. The thirteen-year old began to help Aunt Salma and her cousins with the cooking so as to learn how to take care of her family. She also started learning how to mend clothes and do other household chores. Abdul-Basir noticed the change in her and felt proud.

  A few months later, Kulthum informed Nayila that she was pregnant with her fourth child. Seeing this as an opportunity, Nayila immediately went to her father, but this time not to plead or ask permission.

  ‘Abbi, Aunt Kulthum is with child again. She already has three children to look after, as well as Nabila. Now she gets tired very easily and needs help herself. As from tomorrow, Nabila will be coming to stay with us. She is nearly five years old now and fairly independent. I will look after her,’ she told her father assertively, leaving no room for argument.

  ‘I understand why you refused earlier, telling me that I was too young. I am almost fourteen and ready to take that responsibility. I know how to run a household now,’ she added.

  For once her father did not know what to say, taken aback by the forceful way Nayila had spoken to him. He nodded with a stern face and walked away. But as he turned his back, Abdul-Basir could not resist a smile. He remembered how Zeynab used to tell him how Nayila had taken after him, having the same temperament and just as stubborn. For the first time since she was born, Abdul-Basir half-wished that Nayila was a boy.

  ‘She would have made a great tribe leader,’ he thought.

  The following evening, Abdul-Basir was returning back to his tent after his usual chat with the elders around the camp fire, when he heard laughter and giggling coming from inside. He stopped to listen and for a brief instant he pictured his wife and eldest daughter laughing like old times. He felt an ache deep inside and wished he could turn back the clock to relive those moments. Unexpectedly, the memory of Zeynab’s Jasmine attar – perfume oil came to his mind – as though he could actually smell it – and his yearning became even more painful. Then his bitterness returned and he reversed his steps, walking away from the tent into the darkness.

  ‘I will come back when the girls are asleep,’ he decided.

  ‘At least at meal times I won’t have to be alone with them,’ he thought.

  Since the time Zeynab had passed away, Abdul-Basir and Nayila were still having their meals with Basim’s family. Strolling in the dark, he looked up at the starry sky and wondered whether Zeynab was keeping an eye on the family. He knew deep inside that he should not ignore his younger daughter the way he did – and that Zeynab would not have approved. But he couldn’t help it.

  ‘Dear God,’ he implored, ‘help me to get rid of my resentment towards Nabila. Cleanse my heart of my bitterness.’

  ‘Maybe it is time for me to take a wife, which might help me to accept Nabila,’ he thought.

  It had been almost five years since Zeynab’s death.

  About a year after Zeynab’s death, Basim had casually remarked to his elder brother that he had mourned his wife long enough and should consider taking another wife. By tradition, after forty days of mourning, a widow was allowed to re-marry.

  ‘It’s still too early and I need more time,’ Abdul-Basir had replied.

  He fully realised that by not remarrying he was imposing on Basim and his wife. As well as sharing their meals, Salma would see to the many chores that Zeynab used to do. Not to mention Kulthum, with whom Nabila was staying, already had three children to look after. In tribal society there were no personal possessions. Everything belonged collectively to the tribe. Food and supplies were shared equally among everyone and the livestock was the property of the whole tribe, just as chores were the responsibility of all. Although none of Basim, Salma or Kulthum would ever dream of not helping, Abdul-Basir could not help feeling a sense of imposition and guilt. Yet he could not bring himself to take another wife, for he was simply not ready. From time to time, Basim brought up the subject and Abdul-Basir kept repeating that he was not emotionally ready. But recently this was no longer the only reason.

  Abdul-Basir’s eyesight had slowly been failing. For the last four years, he had noticed his vision becoming increasingly blurry as if he was looking through a veil. What started as a slight haziness had gradually worsened. He was not sure of the cause or if it was a temporary ailment or indeed if this could lead to the complete loss of his eyesight. Maybe it was the constant glare of the sunlight of the desert or the numerous sandstorms he had endured looking for stray goats. Or perhaps the smoke from the oil lamps was responsible, since at night his eyes would burn as if someone had sprinkled pepper in them. However, Abdul-Basir kept his concerns to himself so as not to burden anyone.

  ‘How can I take a wife? I cannot take the responsibility of raising a new family when my eyesight is failing,’ he kept telling himself.

  For this reason he did not tell Basim his latest reason for remaining single. Yet he himself recognised that there was a need for a wife now that young Nabila had come to stay with them. Abdul-Basir had no idea that Nayila already suspected something was amiss. She had been observing her father closely, particularly in the evenings when he would rub his watering eyes constantly.

  Chapter 8

  Afew months after little Nabila had come to stay, Abdul-Basir was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of coughing. Listening attentively in the dark, he deduced that it was Nayila. Since the coughing did not sound too bad, he decided not to get up and attend to her. However, one look at Nayila in the morni
ng made him realise that she was not well at all. With her sunken eyes and ashen face, Nayila did not look her usual self, even though she smiled weakly at her father. Abdul-Basir felt her hot forehead with the back of his hand. Taking his medicine box out, he ground some habba – black seeds, dried cloves and root ginger with his pestle and mortar. He then went to the back of the tent to boil the mixture with camel milk and some dried dates.

  ‘Our Prophet has said that black seed is a cure for all diseases except death. God willing, you will get better soon,’ he told his daughter when he came back.

  The concerned father made Nayila drink the concoction and asked her to take the medicine several times throughout the day, before leaving to attend to his duties.

  In the evening when Abdul-Basir returned to camp, Nayila was still coughing and told her father that she had a headache. Abdul-Basir tried to alleviate her pain by giving her a head massage with olive oil and tied her head tightly with a scarf. That night, Nayila’s coughing worsened and Abdul-Basir became concerned. During the next few days, not only was there no improvement despite Abdul-Basir’s potion, but her fever got worse and the headache persisted. By the end of the week, poor Nayila started to have regular nosebleeds. During the second week, her fever got even higher and the adolescent no longer had the strength to get up from her sheepskin. Nayila felt lifeless and Abdul-Basir stayed by her side, attending to her with Basim taking over his duties.

  ‘Okhti, when will you get better so we can play?’ little Nabila kept asking, not understanding the extent of her sister’s illness.

  At night, Abdul-Basir took to sleeping in his daughters’ section of the tent to keep an eye on Nayila. By the middle of the second week, the sick girl had become agitated in her sleep and began to show signs of confusion and hallucinations.

  ‘Ummi, look! Nabila is running after Abitha. Can you ask her to stop? She will fall and hurt herself,’ she once shouted, as though having a conversation with Zeynab.

  At another time, she was yelling and directing her camel as if she was in the saddle. By now Abdul-Basir was very worried and tried to bring the fever down by applying cool, wet compresses to Nayila’s forehead. He even applied a wet cloth to the soles of her feet to draw the heat out. Whenever his sister-in-law Salma asked him to go and rest while she took over, Abdul-Basir refused. He dozed whenever Nayila was sleeping, but would wake up at the slightest whimper or cough.

  Towards the end of the second week, pink spots appeared on Nayila’s abdomen and her breathing became coarse and rattling. Soon after, the poor girl started having diarrhoea, with green and foul-smelling motions. Abdul-Basir did not know what to do or who to turn to. He had tried most of the herbs he had in his medicine box to relieve the coughing and lower the fever, but to no effect.

  ‘Salma, can you take Nabila back to Kulthum for a few days? I don’t want her to fall ill also,’ he asked his sister-in-law.

  Alone in the dark, with Nayila sleeping, Abdul-Basir broke down. He could not bear to lose Nayila after having been deprived of his wife.

  ‘God Almighty, show clemency to my Nayila. You have tested me and I am at your mercy. Please, I beg you, spare the innocent. Punish me instead for my sins,’ he implored.

  Due to the diarrhoea he had stopped using camel milk, but boiled the herbs and seeds in water instead, to which he would add a pinch of salt. He made sure that Nayila was drinking lots of fluids. In his experience, the main treatment for loose bowels was plenty of water. Everyone in the tribe feared the worse for Nayila and bemoaned that Abdul-Basir had endured so much already. They could not bear to see their leader go through bereavement again, should anything happen to Nayila.

  At the beginning of the third week of Nayila’s illness, there was still no improvement. Old Katija the midwife was also helping out since she too had extensive experience of various ailments and a sound knowledge of herbs and remedies.

  ‘I think we should change Nayila’s name,’ she suggested to Abdul-Basir out of the blue.

  ‘Why did I not think about that earlier?’ Abdul-Basir cursed himself.

  ‘That is a very good idea. Can you choose a name for her?’ he immediately asked Katija.

  ‘Let it be known to everyone that as from this moment onward, this girl’s name is Amel,’ Katija declared formally.

  Aunt Salma, who was giving the patient a wash, called her two daughters who were preparing the meal behind the tent.

  ‘Go and tell everyone that the name of Abdul-Basir’s eldest daughter is Amel as from today. No one should utter her previous name ever again.’

  According to the legend, many believed there was a tree of life underneath God’s throne that had as many leaves as people on earth, with each leaf carrying a person’s name. When a person’s time on earth came to an end, the leaf with his name would fall from the tree. Malakal Maut, the Angel of Death, would pick the leaf and go in search of that person. On the fortieth day, he would sever the soul from the physical body and the person would die. Many believed that if the person’s name was changed within the forty days, it would confuse the Angel of Death and that person might escape death temporarily and be granted a reprieve, as the new name would be written on a new leaf.

  Whether the illness had simply run its course or Abdul-Basir’s remedies had worked, or even whether the Angel of Death had been confused by the change of name, by the middle of the third week Amel’s diarrhoea began to subside and her fever dropped significantly. Abdul-Basir was ecstatic, realising how lucky his daughter had been to miraculously recover. Unknown to him, Amel had caught the dreaded typhoid fever, which more often than not was fatal. By the end of the week the fever had completely gone and the loose motions had stopped. Amel was finally safe, but still very weak. With Aunt Salma’s broth and her father force-feeding her, Amel slowly felt her strength coming back.

  ‘Please bring Nabila back from Aunt Kulthum,’ Abdul-Basir asked the two cousins, knowing that the little girl’s presence would speed up the patient’s recovery.

  Amel was not used to her new name and loved her previous name as it made her feel close to Nabila. However, she was grateful that it saved her life. And more than anything else, she saw how her illness had caused her father to finally accept Nabila in his life. So she embraced being Amel.

  Chapter 9

  It was every father’s dream to see their daughter happily married, settled in a comfortable and prosperous home – and Abdul-Basir was no different. When Amel was fifteen, her father began to think seriously about her future. However, he was indecisive how best to approach this sensitive matter with his strong-minded daughter.

  ‘If Zeynab was still here, she would have dealt with this delicate matter,’ he thought to himself.

  Abdul-Basir certainly did not want Amel to feel as though he wanted to get rid of her. In fact, if it were for him, he would have loved to keep his daughter by his side forever, for he could not bear to be away from her. Since Zeynab’s death, she had become his pillar of strength and had given him a renewed determination in life. But his duty as a father prevailed and as awkwardly as he felt about discussing marriage with his daughter, he had been looking for the right moment to bring up the subject and sound out Amel’s view.

  Abdul-Basir was well aware of the dilemma facing parents and girls of nomadic tribes. A girl dreaming of marrying someone young and rich usually ended up marrying someone poor from a similar tribe. The young couple’s life would perpetuate the constant struggle for survival in the demanding environment of the desert. On the other hand, pragmatic girls wanting a more secure life in town often ended up marrying someone more than twice their age, usually finding themselves the second or even third wife in their new household.

  Nomadic tribes had become hunting grounds for old men. Prosperous old men from the towns regularly came to seek much younger brides from the desert, knowing that many wanted to escape their frugal life, often with the blessing of their parents. Whilst the majority of girls – being romantic – would sentimentally opt f
or marrying someone poor but of their own age, most parents were of the opposing view. Given their life experience, they felt that security in life and in old age was more important than a romantic, yet hard life. These parents often encouraged and sometimes forced their daughters to marry for security. Though Abdul-Basir faced the same predicament, he strongly believed that it should be Amel’s choice to choose whom to marry. He would never dream of forcing his daughter to marry against her wishes.

  It was little Nabila who gave her father the opportunity to raise the sensitive matter with Amel. One evening, the three of them were sitting by the light of oil lamps, with Abdul-Basir puffing on his hookah. Amel was mending one of her father’s garments and Nabila, as usual, was asking endless questions while folding the washed clothes. Despite her six years, she was deeply inquisitive and wanted to know about virtually everything; she was invariably the one who dominated the conversation. Abdul-Basir had slowly grown fond of her and loved her chatter in the evening. She brought joy to the tent and made them feel like a family again, although her constant barrage of questions could be exasperating at times.

  ‘Okhti, when will you start showing me how to mend clothes and perform other household jobs? When you get married I will have to take charge of the tent,’ she asked Amel.

  ‘Don’t worry Nabila, it won’t be anytime soon. You will have plenty of time to learn,’ her sister replied.

  Abdul-Basir looked up and realised that this was the opportunity he had been looking for to probe Amel’s thoughts.

  ‘What do you mean by ‘it won’t be any time soon’? Don’t you realise that you are fifteen already? In a couple of years you will be considered too old to marry and will have fewer options. I think that we should seriously start looking,’ he blurted out, a little too fast, in one continuous breath.