Burned alive: a victim of the law of men

by Souad; Marie-Thérèse Cuny

  The first time I saw him I was lucky. I cleaned the stable in a hurry, and I brought dry hay for a sick ewe that was about to give birth. I had taken two or three steps with the hay when he came out, as elegant as my uncle, in a suit, with beautiful black-and-tan laced shoes, carrying a briefcase, very black hair, very tanned complexion, a proud bearing.

  I lowered my head, my nose in the straw. I heard him walk to the car, the clacking sound of the car door closing, the motor starting up, and the tires on the gravel. I raised my head only when the car was in the distance, and I waited for it to disappear, my heart beating loudly in my chest and my legs trembling. And I said to myself: I want this man for my husband. I love him. I want him, I want him . . .

  But what to do? How could I plead with him to go and beg my father to conclude the marriage? How could I even speak to him first? A girl does not speak first to a man. She is not even supposed to look directly at him. He is inaccessible. Even if this man wants to marry me, it’s not for him to decide it. It’s my father, always him, and he would kill me if he knew I lingered for a second on the road with my load of hay to draw Faiez’s attention.

  I didn’t hope for much that day but I wanted him to see me, wanted him to know that I was waiting, too. So I decided to do everything I could to meet him in secret and speak to him, at the risk of being beaten or stoned to death. I didn’t want to wait any longer for Kainat to leave the house. It could take months or years, it was too unfair. I didn’t want to grow older and become the mockery of the village. I didn’t want to lose all hope of going away with a man, of getting free of my father’s brutality.

  Every morning and every evening, I will be on the terrace watching for my beloved, until he looks up at me and gives me a sign. A smile. If not, I’m certain he will ask for another girl from the village or somewhere else. And one day, I will see another woman getting into this car in my place. She will steal Faiez from me.

  The Secret

  I put my life at risk in telling this love story, which begins almost twenty-five years ago in my native village in the Palestinian Territory, a tiny place, then a region occupied by the Israelis. If I named it, I could be in danger, even thousands of kilometers from there. I am officially dead in my village, my existence has been forgotten for a long time, but if I were to go back today they would try to kill me a second time for the honor of my family. It’s the law of the land.

  On the terrace of the family house, watching for the man I love to appear, I am a young girl in mortal danger. But all I can think of is marriage. It is springtime. I couldn’t say what month, probably April. In my village, we don’t measure time the same way as in Europe. You never know exactly how old your father or mother is, you don’t even know the date of your own birth. Time is calculated by Ramadan, by the seasons of the harvests or the gathering of figs. The sun is your guide and it marks the beginning and end of your working day.

  At the time this all happened, I think I might have been about seventeen years old. I will discover later a document which claims that I am nineteen. But I don’t know where this paper came from. It’s very possible that my mother confused the birth of one daughter with that of another when she had to give me an official existence. I am mature from the time my periods start, eligible now for marriage for the last three or four celebrations of Ramadan. I will be a woman the day of my wedding. My own mother is still young in years but seems old already; my father looks old because he doesn’t have many teeth left. Faiez is certainly older than me, but that’s a good thing. I expect security from him. My brother, Assad, was married too young, to a girl his own age. If she doesn’t give him sons, one day he will need another woman.

  I hear Faiez’s footsteps on the gravel. I shake my wool rug over the edge of the terrace. He looks up. He sees me and I know he has understood. No sign, especially not a word spoken, he gets into his car and drives off. My first rendezvous, an unforgettable emotion, has lasted the time it takes to eat an olive.

  The next morning, I’m more adventurous. I pretend to be chasing a goat in order to pass in front of his house. Faiez smiles at me, and because the car doesn’t start up right away, I know he’s watching me go off toward the fields with the animals. The air is cooler in the morning, which gives me a chance to wear my red woolen jacket, my only new piece of clothing, which I’ve buttoned up to the neck, and which makes me prettier to look at. If I could dance right in the middle of the sheep I would do it. My second rendezvous has lasted longer, because when I turn my head just a little at the edge of the village, I see that he has not yet started the engine. I can’t go any farther in taking the initiative. Now it’s for him to decide how he will arrange to speak to me in secret. He knows where I go and when. The next day my mother isn’t home, she’s gone to the city with my father; my brother is with his wife, and Kainat is taking care of the stable and the little sisters. I am alone and I go out to cut grass for the rabbits. After I’ve walked a quarter of an hour, Faiez appears in front of me. He has followed me discreetly and says hello to me. His sudden presence stuns me. I look around me uneasily to make sure my brother isn’t coming, or someone from the village. There is no one but I go toward the shelter of a high embankment at the edge of the field and Faiez follows me. I am ashamed and I look down at my feet, I twist the fabric of my dress and pull on the buttons of my jacket, I don’t know what to say. He assumes an attractive pose, a stem of green wheat between his teeth, and looks me over.

  “Why aren’t you married?”

  “I have to find the man for me, and my sister has to be married first.”

  “Your father has spoken to you?”

  “He told me your father came to see him a long time ago.”

  “Are you all right at home?”

  “He’ll beat me if he sees me with you.”

  “Would you like us to get married together?”

  “But my sister has to be the first.”

  “You’re afraid?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid. My father is mean. It’s dangerous for you, too. My father could beat both of us.”

  He stays there, sits down calmly behind the embankment, while I move quickly to gather the grass. He seems to be waiting for me but he knows very well I can’t go back to the village with him. I asked him to stay there a few minutes to give me a chance to return alone. And I walk quickly to get back to the house, proud of myself. I want him to have a good impression of me and think of me as a good girl. I have to be careful of my reputation as far as he’s concerned, because I’m the one who made the first move.

  I have never been so happy. It’s so wonderful to be with him, so close, even for a few minutes. I feel it in my whole body. I can’t think about it clearly, I’m too naive, I’m no more educated than a goat, but this wonderful feeling is about the freedom of my heart, and my body, too. For the first time in my life I am someone because I myself decided to do what I want. I am alive. I’m not obeying my father or anyone else. On the contrary, I’m disobeying.

  I have a pretty clear memory of these moments and the ones that will follow. I had almost no sense of myself before this experience. I didn’t know what I looked like, whether or not I was pretty. I wasn’t aware of being a human being, of thinking, of having feelings. What I have always known is fear, the suffering and humiliation of being tied up like an animal in the stable and beaten so hard I had no feeling in my back . . . the terror at the possibility of being suffocated or thrown into a well. I have received so many blows with docility. Even if my father can’t run very fast anymore, he always finds a way to catch hold of us. It’s easy for him to bang my head on the edge of the bathtub because I knocked over some water. It’s easy for him to hit me on the legs when the tea arrives late. You can’t think about yourself when you live like this. My first real meeting with Faiez, in the field of green wheat, gives me for the first time of my existence an idea of who I am. A woman, impatient to see Faiez, who loves him and who is determined to become his wife at any price.

  The next
day, on the same road, he waits for me to go to the field and comes to join me.

  “Do you look at other boys besides me?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Do you want me to speak to your father about the marriage?”

  I would like to kiss his feet for that. I want him to go now, at this very moment, to run and announce to my father that he, Faiez, doesn’t want to wait, that he must ask my family for me, bring gold for me and jewels, and prepare a great feast.

  “I’ll give you a sign for the next time, and don’t wear your red jacket, it’s too visible and that’s dangerous.”

  The days pass, the sun rises and sets, and morning and evening I watch from the terrace for a sign from him. Now I’m certain he’s in love with me. The last time we were to meet, he didn’t come. I waited a long time, more than a quarter of an hour, risking being late getting home and having my father come after me. I was anxious and unhappy, but he was there the next time. From a distance, I saw him coming down the road. He signaled for me to hide at the end of the field, behind the embankment where no one can see us because the grass is so high.

  “Why didn’t you come?”

  “I did come, but I hid farther off to see if you might be meeting someone else.”

  “I don’t meet with anyone else.”

  “The boys whistle when you pass.”

  “I don’t look at anyone. I’m a good girl.”

  “Now I know that. I’ve seen your father. We’ll be married soon.”

  He did it, he had gone to see my father after the second meeting. And even if the date wasn’t fixed, the year wouldn’t end without my being married. It was warm and beautiful that day, the figs are not yet ripe but I’m sure I won’t have to wait for the beginning of summer and the harvests before my mother makes ready the concoction to prepare me for my wedding night. Faiez comes closer to me, very close. I close my eyes, I’m a little afraid. I feel his hand behind my neck and he kisses me on the mouth. I immediately push him away, without saying anything, but my gesture says: Look out. Don’t go any farther.

  “See you tomorrow. Wait for me, but not on the road, it’s too dangerous. Hide here, in the ditch. I’ll meet you after work.”

  He is the first to leave. I wait for him to be far enough away before going back, as usual, but more nervously this time. This kiss, the first one of my life, has overwhelmed me. And the next day, as I watch him approach my hiding place, my heart is trembling. No one in the house suspects my secret meetings.

  In the mornings, my sister sometimes goes with me to take the sheep and the goats to pasture, but she usually goes back to take care of the stable and the house, and I remain alone in the afternoons. The grass is tall in spring and the sheep take advantage of it. It’s thanks to them I’m able to be away by myself. It’s a false freedom that my family grants me, because my father carefully watches the time of my departure and return. The village, the neighbors, they’re all there to remind me about the consequences of misbehavior. I communicate with Faiez by almost invisible signals from the terrace. From a movement of the head I know he will come. But if he gets into his car without looking up, he won’t be coming. That day I know he will come, he confirmed it for me. And I feel strongly that something is going to happen.

  I’m afraid Faiez wants more than a kiss, and at the same time I want it without really knowing what is waiting for me. I’m afraid that if he goes too far and I push him away, he’ll get angry. I also have confidence in him because he knows very well I can’t let myself be touched before marriage. He knows very well that I’m not a charmuta. And he has promised me marriage. But I’m afraid all the same, all alone in this field with the flock. Hidden in the tall grass, I watch the animals and the road. I don’t see anyone. The field is magnificent with all the flowers that are blooming. The sheep are calm in this season, they spend the time eating, not wandering off as they do in the height of summer when the grass is scarcer.

  I was expecting him to come up on my right side, but he arrives from the other direction, surprising me. That’s good, he’s cautious about not being seen, he’s protecting me. He is so handsome. He’s wearing pants that are tight from the waist to the knee and wide from the knee down. It’s the fashion for men who dress in the modern Western way. He has a white sweater with long sleeves and a V-neck, which exposes the hair on his chest. I find him elegant, so chic next to me. I have obeyed, I haven’t worn my red jacket, so I can’t be seen from a distance. My dress is gray, and also my pants. I washed my clothes carefully because with the work they’re often dirty. I’ve concealed my hair beneath a white scarf, but I miss my beautiful red jacket, I would have liked to be so much prettier.

  We sit on the ground, he kisses me. He tries to place his hand on my thigh. I don’t let him do it. He gets annoyed. His expression is mean as he looks at me.

  “Why don’t you want to? Come on!”

  I’m so afraid he’ll go away, that he’ll look for somebody else. He can do that whenever he wants, he’s a good-looking man, my future husband. I love him, I wouldn’t want to give in, I’m too afraid, but even more afraid of losing him. He is my only hope. So I let him do what he wants without knowing what is going to happen to me, and how far he’ll go. He is there, before my eyes, he wants to touch me, nothing else matters. The sun will be setting soon, it’s less hot, I don’t have much time left before I have to take the sheep back. He pushes me into the grass, and he does what he wants. I say nothing more, I don’t resist. He isn’t violent, he doesn’t force me, he knows very well what he’s doing. The pain takes me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting it, but that’s not why I’m crying. He says nothing, either before or after, he doesn’t ask me why I’m crying, and I don’t even know why I have so many tears. I wouldn’t know what to say to him even if he asked. I didn’t want to. I’m a virgin, I know nothing about love between a man and a woman, no one has taught me anything about it. The woman is supposed to bleed, with her husband, that’s all I’ve learned since my childhood. He does what he wants in silence, until I bleed, and all of a sudden he looks surprised, as if he didn’t expect that. Did he believe that I had already done this with other men? Because I was alone with my sheep? He himself said that he had watched me and saw I was an honest girl. I don’t dare look at him, I’m ashamed. He raises my chin and he says: “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I didn’t understand at the moment that he was proud of himself. It was only much later that I felt the anger that he had doubted my honor, that he had used me when he knew how much I was risking. I didn’t want to make love with him hidden in a ditch, I wanted what all the girls of my village want. To be married, to have the ritual hair removal, to have a beautiful dress and go to bed in his house. I wanted him to show everyone at sunrise the white linen with the red stain. I wanted to hear the women’s ululations. He took advantage of my fear, he knew I would give in to keep him.

  I ran to hide nearby, to wipe the blood off my legs and straighten my clothes while he calmly put himself in order. Afterward, I begged him not to drop me, to arrange the marriage quickly. A girl who is no longer a virgin, this is too serious, it’s all over for her.

  “I’ll never drop you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Now go back, change your clothes, and act like nothing happened. Especially don’t cry in the house.”

  He left ahead of me. I’d stopped crying but I felt a little sick. This blood was disgusting. Making love with a man wasn’t a celebration. I felt bad, I felt dirty, I had no water to wash myself, nothing but the grass to wipe myself with. I still felt the burning in my belly, and I had to collect the sheep, and return home, with my dirty pants. I’d have to do the washing in secret. As I hurried back, I thought I probably wouldn’t bleed anymore but wondered if I would always feel so bad with my husband. Would it always be so disgusting?

  Is my expression normal when I reach the house? I’m not crying anymore but I hurt inside and I’m afraid. I realize
what I have done. I’m not a virgin anymore. I’m no longer safe as long as I’m not married. I won’t be a virgin on my wedding night. But that’s not important because he knows I was a virgin with him. I’ll arrange it somehow, I’ll cut myself with a knife, I’ll stain the marriage linen with my blood. I will be like all the other women.

  I wait for three days. I watch from the terrace for Faiez to give me a signal for a meeting. This time, he leads me into a little shelter of stones, at the other end of the field. It’s a place where we’d be out of the rain. This time I don’t bleed. I still have discomfort but much less fear. All I care about is that he come back. He is there and I love him even more. What he does with my body isn’t important, it’s in my head that I love him. He is my whole life, all my hope of leaving my parents’ house, of being a woman who walks with a man in the street, who gets into a car with him to do the shopping and goes to stores to buy dresses and shoes. I am happy to be with him, to belong to him. He’s a man, a real one, a capable man. I am confident about the marriage. He doesn’t know when, and neither do I, but I don’t ask any questions. In my mind, it is certain.

  Until it happens, I must be watchful that I’m not denounced by someone. For the next meeting, I’ll change my route. I figure the extra time I’ll need, and in the meantime I don’t dare leave the house by myself by the iron door. I wait to be with my mother or my sister. I watch for Faiez to leave every morning. As soon as I hear his steps on the gravel, I go quickly to the cement wall. If someone else is outside I turn my back; if there is no one I wait for the signal. Two more rendezvous since the first one when I lost my virginity. We can’t see each other every day, it wouldn’t be wise. It’s another six days before he gives the signal for the third meeting. I’m still afraid, and still confident. I pay attention to the slightest noise in the countryside. I avoid waiting at the side of the road. I wait in the grass in a ditch, with my stick. I watch the bees in the wildflowers, and I dream about the day soon to come when I won’t be guarding sheep and goats anymore, when I won’t be cleaning out the manure in the stable. He is going to come, he loves me, and when he leaves again I will say to him, like the first and the second times: Don’t abandon me.