by Hasan Namir
In my mind, we are then seated in a restaurant. As we look at the menu, she asks me, “So tell me, are you the marriage type?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you looking to get married? Isn’t that why we’re here right now?”
I am speechless, but fortunately, a group of musicians begins to play. A belly dancer emerges from behind a screen, her jewellery glittering in the dim lighting.
“Look at her,” says Yassmine. “She’s an artist. The men admire her, maybe they even want to sleep with her. But at the same time, they make fun of her and degrade her.” She sighs. “Our society is so judgmental.”
“I agree with you.”
“I mean, people like to talk. They like to gossip. They like to make fun of and degrade others. Why do they do that, Ramy? I don’t get it.”
“People are cruel,” I say.
“I have a friend,” she continues. “One of my really close friends. She’s a belly dancer too. And people look down on her, even though they enjoy watching her. Such hypocrites.”
“What about her family?”
“When they found out, her brother and her cousins beat her up in front of all the neighbours. My friend was humiliated. She was broken. We lost touch, and I don’t know what happened to her. I heard from some people that she got married right after. Not by choice, probably.”
“Well … I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Ramy, I’m not sure I ever want to marry …”
I can see that Yassmine feels guilty for confessing this, but it makes me happy.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It doesn’t bother me.”
She smiles. “Well, of course it doesn’t. We both know … you’re not interested in marriage.”
I sigh. “Well, I suppose I can’t help it.”
“It’s not your fault. But we live in a country that forces us to conform to traditional ways.”
I admire her. In a strange way, I even feel attracted to her.
I am awakened from my reverie when Mohammed once again knocks on my door, telling me he’s ready to go to school. He comes in, dressed for work. “I hope you had some time to think about the pictures.”
“Not yet, habibi. Give me a few more days.”
“All right. But don’t take too long. They will not wait forever.”
“Then what should I do?”
“Just pick one. It doesn’t really matter who.”
Choosing a wife based on a photograph alone is ridiculous, but I keep my opinion to myself. I realize that this is our tradition. You see a photograph, and if she is pretty, she will make a good wife—a facile assumption. But many successful marriages begin this way. If I were a heterosexual man, I would want to get to know the woman first: her personality, goals, views on life.
“Why are you quiet?”
“I’m just thinking about women.”
“Good man.”
Oh, yes—thinking about them, dreaming about them, fantasizing about them. It fascinates me that Mohammed seems to buy all that talk.
Later, in class, I think again about Mohammed’s obsession over marrying me off. When will it end? And then I hear a faint melody through the open window.
After class, I track down the source of the music. Through an open door, I see two men, one playing guitar and the other a violin. The guitar player is Sammy. Oh god, he is beautiful.
The music comes to an end when Sammy looks up and sees me. At first I feel like ducking my head, then realize how stupid that would look.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, smiling.
“I was … You sound great.”
“Come on in,” he says, opening the door wide.
Inside, Sammy introduces me to the violinist, Firas.
“You’re brilliant,” I tell Firas, but I’m thinking of Sammy.
“Any requests?” Sammy asks.
I know they’re going to laugh, but I really want to hear one particular song: “My Heart Will Go On.” When I tell them what it is, I’m surprised that they take me seriously. Sammy begins to play the intro, and Firas joins in. I shut my eyes and imagine myself on the ship. I imagine that I’m Rose and Sammy is Jack, holding me as I let go and fly. When the movie played on Iraqi television, I was transfixed. It convinced me that I would rather die in the arms of a lover than die alone in a world that imprisons me in silence.
When the song ends, my eyes are fixed on Sammy. Firas must have noticed because he quickly packs his violin up and finds an excuse to leave. My heart begins to pound so loudly, I’m afraid Sammy will hear it.
“So, you liked our music?” Sammy asks. I know I’m blushing.
“I could listen to you play guitar all day.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says, smiling.
Suddenly I feel brave. “I was thinking maybe we could have dinner together sometime?”
“Hmm. I have a concert tomorrow, actually. If you want to come, I’d be happy to see you then.”
“Oh really? I …” I am at a loss for words. He wants to see me?
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, laughing.
Before I can respond, the door opens and a young woman walks in. She smiles at Sammy as she reaches for his hand. Who is she?
“All right, buddy, I have to go now,” Sammy says. He pulls a flyer out of his guitar case. “Here’s the address for tomorrow’s concert.”
Then they leave together. I am alone again.
At home, I lock myself in my room, lie on the bed, and vow to give up on love once and for all. It hurts too much. I don’t know if I should bother to go to the concert. I should have learned from my past experience with Ali. But when I wrestle with my heart, I can’t help myself. I cannot triumph. I close my eyes, and within minutes, I fall asleep.
“What’s the matter?” a female voice whispers.
I look up and see that I’m in a doctor’s office. I sit on a chair and facing me is a woman with a ponytail, wearing a white lab coat.
“I’m Dr Lamia. And you must be Ramy.”
“Yes.” I reach for her hand. “Nice to meet you, Dr Lamia.”
“I hope I look better in person. I don’t photograph well.”
“Uh … right. So, what kind of doctor are you?”
“I’m a family doctor.”
She places her stethoscope on my chest. “Are you feeling well? You seem sad.”
“I’m just thinking about a lot of things. But I’m okay, thanks.”
“Good.” She puts the stethoscope on the table and sits down across from me. “So, what’s bothering you?”
“I’m just … sad.”
“You’re in love?”
“No, of course not!”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to get into details. We’ve all been in love before. It’s normal. You don’t have to hide it.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m in love with her. I just have a crush on her.”
The doctor’s eyes widen in surprise. “Her?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Yes.”
“Look, there’s one thing you should know: I’m the last person to judge you.”
I let out a sigh. “It’s difficult, you know, I—”
“I know what you mean. My brother felt the same.”
“Your brother?”
“Ahmed. He was gay also, and he came out to me when he was young. I told him that he couldn’t live like this. He had to marry.”
“See, that’s the problem. You should’ve accepted him”
“I did accept him!” she interrupts. “But I was being realistic. My parents were so conservative, they didn’t let us do anything. I wanted to be an actress, wanted to star in movies. But no, they started threatening me and kept pushing me to go to medical school.”
“I’m sorry. I know how you feel.”
“In other places, you might be able to be free and be whoever you want to be. But not in Iraq. You can’t be gay. It’s always about family honour a
nd respect.”
“So what happened to your brother? Did your parents find out?”
“Unfortunately, they did. Rumours went around that my brother was caught sleeping with the neighbours’ boy. I was worried they’d kill Ahmed, but he fled the country, to Turkey. I haven’t heard much from him since.” She pauses. “I miss him very much, my little brother. I hope he’s okay and in a better place.”
I get up and give her a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
“Trust me, take my advice. Just get married to a woman unless you’re planning to leave the country.”
“I had the opportunity to escape, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t hurt my family.”
“I can help you.”
“What do you mean?”
Instead of answering, she startles me by kissing my neck, then down to my chest. The hairs on my arms rise; I’ve got goosebumps, and I feel a stirring in my groin. But a knot of nervousness also begins to tighten in my chest. I wake up in a cold, cold sweat.
I work up the nerve to go to Sammy’s concert. Waiting for him to perform, my heart beats like a dabke drum; Sammy is beating on it. Glancing around, I see the girl he was with before, sitting beside an older woman; they are both wearing hejabs. Who is she? His girlfriend or fiancée or wife? I wish she would disappear. Is that too much to ask?
Finally, the lights dim. Sitting in the darkness, I close my eyes as he starts to play, and I’m mesmerized. Then, before I know it, though, the lights are back on, and he is taking his bows.
When Sammy leaves the stage, the girl and the older woman leave too, presumably to join him backstage. Jealousy overcomes me. Soon everyone else is gone; I am alone and realize that I am wallowing in self-pity. I should act, do something, anything. Then a tap on my shoulder startles me. I turn to see Sammy.
“Hi,” he says with a grin. “Thanks for coming tonight.”
“You play so well!”
He shakes his head. I feel awkward, trying to think of something else to say. “So … who was that woman with you?” I finally ask.
“What woman?”
“The one who left with you the other day, at school. I saw her here tonight.”
He laughs. “That’s my sister.”
My heart lightens. “I thought she was your fiancée!”
“That’s funny. Don’t worry!”
Why would he think that I’d be worried?
“What are you doing now?” I ask.
“They’re waiting for me. I think I’ll call it a night.”
“No!” I blurt out, mentally kicking myself.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, I meant … I don’t really have anything to do right now. Do you want to … go for dinner or something?”
“Dinner sounds lovely.”
“Really?”
“But I have to drive my mother and sister home first. Do you have a car?”
“No.”
“Then come with me.”
Mohammed had offered me a ride to the concert, but I took a taxi instead. I didn’t want to answer any more of his questions. And I didn’t want to raise any suspicions in him since I was doing my best to rebuild the trust between us. After all, Mohammed is happy with me now because he believes that I’ll be getting married soon and will have a family of my own.
In Sammy’s car, I ride up front while Sammy’s mother and sister are in the backseat. I can feel his mother glaring from behind me. A friend of mine once told me that mothers could smell homosexuals from a hundred miles away. I wonder if she has such a talent.
“How do you two know each other?” she eventually asks.
“Sammy and I both go to Baghdad University,” I answer.
“Ah,” she says and falls silent again. His sister stifles a giggle.
When we arrive at their house, the two women get out of the car; Sammy waits until they safely enter their apartment building before turning to me.
“Where do you want to go?” he asks.
“Anywhere.” I mean it. We could be stranded in a desert, and I’d be okay with it.
“I’ll take you somewhere special,” Sammy says.
We drive along the Qadisaya Expressway, past the sword monument and the victory arch, to the local market area, where all the cheap shops are. There, food carts in the street serve regional Iraqi foods, such as pache, lamb’s head and feet, or falafel and beans.
“What do you feel like eating?” he asks me. “It will be my treat.”
“Thank you! I love lessan,” I tell him, pointing at the cart that sells sheep and cow tongue sandwiches. Sammy parks the car and we walk toward the street vendor.
“So, which do you prefer, the cow or the sheep?”
I laugh. “The sheep.”
“Good choice.”
Sammy orders two lamb tongue sandwiches from an older man and his two young sons. He hands me one and says, “Enjoy.”
“Thanks, habibi.”
We walk down the street as we eat our delicious sandwiches. Sammy greets a middle-aged man in front of a grocery store, then explains, “Sajjad is my boss. I work for him a few days a week here to help out my family.”
“Do you have any other siblings?” I ask.
“Just Rawan, my sister. My mom works day and night, making clothes. How else can we survive in this day and age?”
“What about your father?”
“He passed away when I was young. He died during the first war.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. May Allah bless his soul.”
“Amen.”
As I take the last bite of my sandwich, Sammy asks, “What about you? Who do you live with?”
“My brother and his wife. My father was killed by Saddam. And my mom—”
“Fuck Saddam.”
We walk a few more steps in silence, both of us momentarily lost in thought about our families and what Iraq used to be.
“I just want to finish school and get out of here,” Sammy finally says.
“What about marriage?” I can’t help myself from asking.
“Marriage is the last thing on my mind right now. When I’m financially ready, I’ll find myself a good wife.”
Of course he will. It’s the Iraqi way.
Sammy drops me off back at home. In my room, I shut my eyes. Soon I hear maqam music and see myself seated inside a nightclub. At the tables beside me are wealthy men, smoking cigars and drinking alcohol. They roar with excitement when a beautiful woman appears on stage, her long hair covered with a glittery scarf. From her eyes alone, I realize that the dancer is Yassmine. Dancing to the music of the ney, the Arabian flute, and the dabke, the drums, her hips move and shake, but her eyes are somehow fixed on mine.
After her performance, Yassmine comes over to the table and sits down next to me.
“Now you know my secret,” she says, smiling.
“You know my secret, too.”
She leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
I wake up from the dream when I hear some noise in the kitchen. There I find Noor sitting at the table, crying.
“Noor, are you okay?” I ask.
She looks surprised to see me. “Oh, I didn’t know you were awake.”
“Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t sleep. Don’t worry. You go back to bed.”
“Noor, please … Did you and Mohammed fight?”
“No! Not at all! I was just … dreaming about you having kids one day. I can’t wait for that day.”
I know that Noor isn’t telling me the truth. My heart tells me she had been dreaming yet again about having her own children. “Why can’t you just adopt?” I ask.
“You know it’s not that easy, Ramy.”
“Why not? You can give a poor child love and a home. Why is it haram?”
“It’s not haram. We could’ve adopted a child, but … people talk.”
“Who care
s what other people think?”
“They would look down upon us.”
“People talk all the time, Noor, you shouldn’t care what they say.”
“I must go to bed now.” She kisses my forehead and says goodnight.
In the morning, Mohammed and Noor are seated at the table. She shows no sign of her distress from the previous night, but both she and Mohammed look as if they are waiting for me.
“Ramy,” Mohammed says. “Come and sit down.”
My heart begins to race. Now what? As I sit, Mohammed says, “Do you remember Jameela?”
“I remember seeing her photo, yes. What about her?”
“Noor spoke with Jameela’s mother, and she’s invited us all over for dinner.”
“When?”
“This evening. Come with me, Ramy,” he says as he gets up from the table.
I feel a sense of dread come over me, but I don’t have a say in the matter. Mohammed leads me to his room. He can’t seem to contain his excitement as he rifles through his closet.
“What are you doing, Hamoody?” I know he likes me to call him that, my pet name for him.
He pulls out a suit. “I hope this will fit you. I want you to wear it tonight.”
I try it on; it fits me, although the pants feel a little too tight. I imagine leaning over to shake hands with Jameela and—rip! Maybe Jameela would disapprove of me if my pants ripped, and then maybe Mohammed and Noor would stop bugging me about finding a wife. Mohammed sits on his bed watching as I look at myself in the mirror.
“Look, I need you to act mature and responsible at dinner. I want you …”
I know what he is trying to say. He wants me to be manly, to act honourably. “I just want you to be good,” he continues. “Try to impress the woman and her family.”
“I … will,” I say reluctantly.
That night, as I am getting dressed, that trapped feeling creeps up on me again. My brother and his wife have sacrificed so much for me. I owe it to them to make sacrifices too. Looking in the mirror, I try to really see myself. Am I truly homosexual? How can I be straight if it’s only Sammy I want now, and before that, Ali?
In the car, I sit in the back seat, quietly observing Mohammed and Noor as they chat. I realize that, after all these years, they are still in love. I wonder how this could be possible when they don’t have any children. Aren’t children what keep a husband and wife together? I find it odd that Mohammed and Noor rarely fight. Is that normal in marriage? I remember that if my aunt Houda and uncle Tareq weren’t fighting, there was something wrong. One day, when we went to visit them, they were shouting at each other, and from the other room, we heard dishes breaking. Would Sammy and I fight like that?