by Monia Mazigh
She pinned her hair back in place, took a deep breath, tied her bathrobe with a double knot, and turned mechanically back to her cardboard boxes. Only one thing mattered now: she had to get out of this place as soon as she could.
6
The lecture was well under way. For a half-hour Professor Fong had been struggling to explain the principles of financial actualization to the thirty-odd students seated in front of him. At first his accent had given the students the impression that he was speaking Chinese. Eventually they’d adjusted, but the lengthy and laborious calculations that accompanied his examples might just as well have been Mandarin ideograms. When the professor saw the looks of confusion on his students’ faces and realized that they were lost, he, who should have shown patience, became irritated instead.
Erasing everything he had written on the blackboard, he began to explain it all over again. “If I gave you the choice between three dollars now and ten dollars in three years, what would you choose?”
The students glanced at one another. Everyone had an opinion. Some giggled; others rolled their eyes, asking themselves why they’d made the mistake of signing up for this particular course. Lama chewed on her pen in consternation. She wanted to answer the question, but had no idea how to go about it.
The hum in the lecture hall had become almost a roar. Professor Fong was losing patience, and in a loud voice he called for silence. Then, taking a deep breath, he began his explanations and mathematical models all over again. A few students let out whoops of delight. At last they’d begun to grasp what he was talking about. Some looked on bewildered, while others glanced at their watches in the hope that the day’s lecture would be over soon.
Lama’s face lit up. She began to understand as she followed the professor through all the steps, making the same calculations and obtaining the same results. She was a dynamic young woman with a constant smile, a powerful appetite for work, and an even stronger motivation to succeed. She wanted nothing more than to complete her degree in business and join her father in Dubai. Her life with her mother and two sisters weighed on her more heavily each day. Not that she didn’t like them, no, but she could no longer put up with the hypocrisy and the superficiality of their relations.
When they’d immigrated to Canada four years ago, Lama had discovered another way of looking at the world. She had been an adolescent then, searching for answers to the questions that welled up within her. Her entire childhood had been spent in Dubai. She’d attended the American school there, along with children from the Emirates and other children of immigrants like her. There were Palestinians, Lebanese, Egyptians, and Americans, not to mention other nationalities. Their parents had come to work in that country, which, ever since the discovery of oil, had become one huge construction site that drew millions who hoped to make their fortunes from the gushing wells. For Arab immigrant families like Lama’s, Dubai was heaven on earth. There was work, an Arab Muslim culture, and business was booming, all infused by the aroma of unchained capitalism and the flash of wealth.
Mr. Bibi, Lama’s father, had been working like a man possessed for years. His Emirati associate, Mr. al-Arish, a distant cousin of the royal family and a pious man of means, had taken to business the way a fish takes to water. He had all the tools for success: excellent birth, an alliance with the ruling dynasty, money, and a head full of ideas about how to transform his country into an oasis of beauty and economic development in the middle of the desert. Still, as the saying goes, nobody’s perfect — Mr. al-Arish didn’t speak English. He had attended Qur’an school for a few years and had memorized only a handful of verses before his father’s death thrust him into the business world.
Al-Arish had rapidly proved to his paternal uncles and his closest friends that business was second nature to him. He could sniff out opportunities and never seemed to make a mistake. So it was that he located Mr. Bibi, who worked as a consulting accountant in one of the al-Arish Group’s companies. Immediately he recognized him as a conscientious, ambitious, professional employee of integrity — but primarily he saw Mr. Bibi as someone who spoke fluent English and who could act as his right hand, opening a door to the outside world for his business.
Mr. Bibi believed it was an opportunity not to be missed, a childhood dream fulfilled. Before long the two men became associates. But he never rested on his laurels, and continued to work as hard as when he had been a simple employee. A cloud hung over his success, however. He was not a native of Dubai, and was always looked upon as an immigrant, a stateless Palestinian, just another among countless foreigners.
The same feelings tormented Lama whenever she came home from school in Dubai. She felt alone, rootless. Always different. Cringing, she recalled a particularly painful incident. Her mother was backing out of the school parking lot to drive Lama and her sisters home. The car scraped the rear-view mirror of a red Mercedes with tinted windows. It was nothing serious, just a scratch. Lama’s mother was upset enough with herself, but then a woman wearing huge designer sunglasses leaped out of the other car.
Lama and her sisters looked on in silence. The woman, one foot touching the ground, the other still inside the car, held the door as if to certify that it belonged to her. Sunglasses pushed back atop her head, her posture and expression betrayed her arrogance. She wore a long black robe with glossy embroidered motifs, wayward strands of hair peeked out from under the black shawl that covered her head, and her dark red lipstick matched the Mercedes. Everything about her seemed to shout easy money and vulgarity, and her gestures and body language spoke for themselves. She burst out sarcastically, “So, not only are they foreigners, they’re driving cars.”
Her face twisted with scorn, she mocked Lama’s mother who was clearly not a native of the Emirates, but who lived there and even drove a car. Not only did her country accept foreigners, she insinuated, but they were doing quite nicely, thank you, and even getting rich.
Normally Samia Bibi would never let that kind of remark go by without a reply to match. But this time she held back. Was it because of the children in the back seat? Did the woman’s haughty attitude intimidate her? Or was it simply because she was afraid to speak up and defend herself in a country that wasn’t her own? She muttered some incomprehensible excuses and then roared off, leaving the woman standing there with a stunned expression on her face.
Lama had been twelve years old. The woman’s attitude, and her words, had hit her like a blow to the stomach. She wanted to do something, to defend her mother, but she felt so powerless, so insignificant.
For Lama, immigration to Canada meant the search for a country she could call her own. She wanted to make real friends, build ties with people, and begin to feel at home. Back in the Emirates, everything, from the ostentatious wealth to the superficiality of social life, rang false. Everything, including her relationships with her friends. She felt as though people were watching her every move, scrutinizing her every step, as though she was never appreciated or liked for who she was. Her mother and sisters had fallen into the trap of vanity — her mother because she felt she had to and out of laziness, and her sisters out of imitation and childishness.
Lama’s arrival in Canada had transformed her life. At last she could go about her business without having to worry about what people would say. She could make the friends she wanted and she could relieve herself of the heavy, exhausting burden that Arab culture and tradition had become.
7
Ever since she found the true path Sally’s life hadn’t been the same. She performed her prayers meticulously. She covered her body from head to toe so that not even the slightest hair showed. She covered her face except for her eyes and wore black gloves. But her radical transformation had not kept her away from her computer and from the Internet. She was continually online, reading up on Islam and participating in the multiple forums she found there. In fact, it was when she discovered those forums that Sally had begun to take an interest in her re
ligion.
Up until then, religion had been an accessory for her, something that made her feel good about herself; a kind of talisman that helped her to get what she wanted from her parents, to display the “model daughter” label. Now all of that was behind her. At twenty-one she was brimming with self-assurance. She didn’t need fetishes to succeed in life; she wanted nothing to do with traditional Islam of the kind her parents practised. She wanted a pure, unadulterated Islam, an Islam that would make her feel strong and superior. And the only way to do that was to return to the source, to learn the truth about everything.
So it was that the Internet became Sally’s saviour, the light in her darkness, the only avenue to the only reliable sources — those of true Islam. For every question that arose, she simply consulted the collections of ready-made fatwas available on the Internet. Should she pray while wearing makeup? Should she show her face and hands in public, or should she wear gloves? Should she speak on the telephone in her normal voice or should she place her hand over her mouth when speaking to strange men (wasn’t it forbidden to speak to strangers, and wasn’t the female voice seductive)? You could find everything you wanted on the Internet. But you had to make sure to visit the right sites — those that promised pure Islam, not those others that claimed to be Muslim but were really agents of corruption that confused young people even more.
Sally’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hussein, no longer knew how to deal with their only daughter. The earthquake that had destroyed their peaceful family life had caught them unawares. At first they were pleased when their daughter sat down in front of the computer to study and to consult websites — it all seemed normal to them. Sally was an excellent student who had never caused them the slightest concern.
Sally’s mother kept sewing fashionable dresses for her, made from the best fabrics to suit the season. But as time passed, Sally began to turn her back on the clothing her mother made for her. At first Fawzia thought her daughter didn’t like her creations, that she preferred clothing off the rack. It was Sally’s age, she reasoned. “She’s still young, and trying to affirm her personality,” she concluded, and with her customary simplicity she let things ride.
But Sally only wanted to wear the jilbab. At first she didn’t cover her hair, leaving it tied up in a bun at the back of her head. She spoke to her parents less and less. She did not tell them that what she read on the Internet was making her more certain day by day that she must reject their impious lifestyle and draw closer to God. Gradually she felt resentment towards them creeping into her mind. Why do they live like infidels? Why doesn’t my mother hide her hair in front of strangers? She did not hate them, but she had begun to call her entire life into question, and with it the principles her parents had handed down to her.
Sally and her family were at odds. For her, every day was like a struggle between good and evil. For her parents, it was like a wound that only seemed to worsen, a wound they had no idea how to heal. Even Fawzia’s best efforts and Ali’s affectionate gaze could not extract Sally from the coldness that enveloped her. What she respected above all were the legal opinions of the sheikhs she followed with such fervour on the Internet. With goosebumps on her skin and tears in her eyes, she would enter a state of euphoria, carried far away from the cares of the world. Strong in her faith, she was prepared to confront the whole world, even her parents.
Sally was stretched out on her bed. An anonymous message had just popped up on her BlackBerry. Her hands were moist, her heart beating in staccato cadence. It was not just any message — it was a virtual love letter.
The wind is blowing
I shake
Your eyes bewitch me
I turn pale
Take me with you
I’ll wait patiently
As beauty awaits her love
A sweet, probing poem, simple and deep, that resonated within her. It was signed The Boy Next Door.
Never had words troubled Sally so much. Not even the day when she had decided to wear her long black dress and cover her face, in spite of her mother’s abundant tears. On that day she had become mute as a stone, a creature without emotion; she did not even answer her mother. She was on the straight path, of that she was certain.
Mrs. Hussein could not stop crying; she coughed, sniffled, and rubbed her eyes, which had become as red as two fat tomatoes.
“How dare you go out dressed like that?” she shouted at her daughter.
Sally could barely look at her. She felt serene, and the haughty look on her face tore at her mother’s heart. “Mommy, you just don’t understand what I’m doing. This is how we’re supposed to dress. This is the right way.”
Mrs. Hussein felt as though she were speaking to a total stranger. She couldn’t grasp what Sally was saying. “But back in our village, no one covered their face, not even the imam’s wife, and God knows how pious she was.”
Sally shrugged. “Those people are fools. They do not read, they don’t even have access to the Internet. They’ve distorted their religion. They don’t know the true rules of Islam. Those people . . . we’ll have to re-Islamize them!”
Sally’s mother felt as if a dagger had pierced her heart. She couldn’t accept that such hard, such horrible talk could be coming from her daughter’s mouth. She walked out of the room with a prayer on her lips, her eyes moist with tears.
Sally was pleased with her performance; she had to tell her mother the truth. She was imperturbable. But as she lay on her bed, the words of the poem swirled in her head, infusing her heart with a rich new perfume, and she was almost trembling. Who in the world might be interested in her?
She had hidden her whole body in order to protect herself from temptation. She had chosen the path of purity and powerfully rejected that of exhibitionism, of disbelief and superficiality. Every day she struggled against her parents’ lackadaisical attitude and their ignorance of the true precepts of God by being as strict and intransigent as she could. Who could possibly be interested in her? Moreover, the interested person was a boy.
“O Allah, I beg you to forgive me, forgive me all my sins,” she whispered, as though she were terrified of her own thoughts. She was more than certain there was no boy living on their street. And even if there were, she couldn’t have cared less. She wasn’t going to read such spiritually corrupt messages! Hadn’t her sheikh told her that whatever turns human beings away from the adoration of almighty God was illicit, was haram? No, there could be no doubt about it. Worse yet, the note was poetry, a form of expression that the ulema didn’t agree upon. Who knows, maybe she had even committed a sin by reading those verses.
She got to her feet abruptly. The blood drained from her face. She hurried into the bathroom to wash and perform her ablutions. She wanted to purify herself of the filthy words that had crept into her body. By tomorrow she would have forgotten all about that bad joke, she was sure . . . But in her confusion, Sally forgot to say insha’Allah.
God had other plans for her.
8
Nancy Ajram’s voice filled the hall: “Dearest, come close, feast your eyes on me.” The top Arab pop star warbled as a crowd of girls and women undulated in the middle of the dance floor.
This wasn’t merely belly dancing but entire bodies moving every which way, back and forth, whirling, bobbing, and weaving. The younger girls lifted up their hair with both hands. With languorous eyes they swung their hips with consummate skill. They shook their shoulders, thrusting forward the daring cleavage of their evening gowns. Their elders, thick of thigh and round of belly, tempered by age and many pregnancies, danced modestly, letting their hands follow the rhythm of the song.
As if on cue, a tight circle formed around Samia. The sequined dress that barely reached her knees looked as if it were painted on her body. She was small, svelte; round after round of dieting and long sessions at the slimming centre had kept her relatively fit, at least in the eyes of most of the la
dies who knew her. She danced at the centre of the group, like a squirming earthworm surrounded by hungry beetles. Her limber body swayed from left to right as her eyes, caked with kohl and mascara, darted furtively in all directions.
The other women’s gazes dripped jealousy, but their forced smiles, their outbursts of laughter, their clapping, and their flattering banter created a joyous, animated atmosphere. Samia kept on spinning and thrusting her shoulders forward. It was as if she’d been transported back in time, to Kuwait twenty years ago.
SHE WAS STUDYING English then, and she would dance with her girlfriends and dream of a Prince Charming who would carry her away to a wonderful life, far beyond the surrounding desert and the social suffocation of everyday existence. Her choice of English was the first step in drawing closer to the West. She was determined to acquire the tools that would help her break free from this land that was killing her softly day by day. The only thing that gave her the illusion of freedom was the monthly get-togethers at the home of one or another of her girlfriends.
She and her friends would dance, put on extravagant makeup, smoke a few furtive cigarettes, and then sit down to watch an Egyptian tearjerker. For all her escapades, Samia considered herself a good Muslim. She wore a headscarf and prayed, though not always regularly (there were days when she felt too tired or felt her faith a bit weak). Deep down she knew those things were only extravagances, and that she was a good girl at heart.
When she finally found a husband, things would be different. Finding that husband had become her obsession. Her parents wanted her to marry a Palestinian, as her cousins had done. But Samia dreamed of a Lebanese man, an Arab Don Juan who would whisper in her ear with a cultivated accent, who would cover her with diamonds, who would make her laugh — in a word, someone who would bring her happiness. She wanted a well-mannered man, handsome, wealthy, and of a good family. Unfortunately, among all the sons of the Palestinian families they knew, there was no such person. They were ugly, too dark, too skinny, too fat, too serious, too religious, sons of families that weren’t as well off as she would like.