by Qanta Ahmed
“Oh, her. Well, when she told her family that she was considering marrying a married man, they absolutely forbade it, plus it turns out she was from a different tribe and her family didn't allow inter-tribal marriages. I think she is still single.” Imran returned to some X rays and began to make a phone call.
I was suddenly reminded of the woman in question. Nameless, she always caught my eye because of the intense wrapping of her white linen veil, which covered her entire face except for her eyelids. But this woman, being particularly orthodox, was even more cautious, securing her layers of head covering with visible safety pins which she applied just next to her right eye, as though she was worried about a sudden gust of wind which might tear her precarious veil away.
The safety pin really disturbed me. I hadn't seen anything like it in the Kingdom. She peered through a tiny rent of the white linen, her quiet, blank eyes darting around, mostly in fear. Now I wondered whether she was worried about running into Fatima, who also worked at the same hospital, though I doubted that, enveloped in their veilings, they could actually recognize each other. What a mystery Faris was. I wondered how he had wooed the young doctor. In the Kingdom, a man's desire must have been particularly arduous to find its way through all these veils.
I hadn't known of anyone who intended to be divorced during my stay in the Kingdom. In a country where tribal and endogamous marriages were common and the stigma of divorce both culturally and theologically enormous, I wondered how commonly divorces could occur. I referred the question once again to Zubaidah, carefully steering myself away from the reasons she, at thirty-six, continued to remain single.
“Oh Qanta, it is becoming terribly common. We don't know why. In my opinion the women are becoming very educated and independent, and finding suitable marriage partners becomes more and more difficult for the girl's family. You know that marriage is very important for Muslims, Qanta, don't you?” I nodded. “Allah has written for us in his book there is someone for each of us. Let me remind you.” She opened the Holy Quran which she kept at her small, neat desk, searching for a passage. After a few moments, she read to me in Arabic. I waited for the translation.
“I read you the translation, Qanta,” and she glanced up at me with her gray eyes to check I was listening. In this late-afternoon light they seemed almost green.
Among His signs is [the fact] that He has created spouses for you from
among yourselves so that you may console yourselves with them. He has
planted affection and mercy between you; in that are signs for people
who think things over. (based on Quran 30:21)
“That sounds lovely, Zubaidah. So maybe he has created one such for me. I would like someone to ‘console’ me!” For a time we both laughed.
“Families here are afraid of divorce. After divorce it is hard for a Saudi woman to remarry, and anyway marriage is very expensive for the man and his family. You must have heard of the mahr, the bridal price, which must be paid to the bride (to her, not to her family, Qanta). It's due when the wedding occurs. Well, a lot of men don't have that money or have to earn for years to save it. Things are becoming difficult. We want our Saudi men to marry Saudi women, because we are a small race, but nowadays they are going overseas to marry ladies from Jordan and Lebanon and of course, sometimes Americans and Europeans, because for them the mahr isn't really enforced. So, we are left with more and more Saudi women waiting to be married.
“When they do marry, because they have waited so long, it is too much of a strain for the older Saudi woman to adjust. I think it's OK if you are like Ghadah, who got married at 19. She got to grow up with her husband, but otherwise it becomes very difficult. And while women have been waiting, in the more educated classes, they become working women, like us. Adjusting to a marriage with a man who then only wants you to be at home or to cook and raise children is a big shock. Lots of women cannot do it.”
“So women are asking for divorce, Zubaidah?”
“Of course, Qanta!” Zubaidah always became invigorated whenever she discussed Islam. “Islam permits it on several bases. The woman has just as many rights to divorce as a man; she has the right to leave if the marriage is not working. Remember always, Islam is justice, if nothing else!
“For example, if a man wants to take a second wife, that cannot happen without the first wife's permission. And if he insists, that is grounds for her asking for divorce. Islam allows additional wives to a man, up to a maximum of four on very special circumstances, let's say if the first wife cannot bear children or if she is mentally sick. Then instead of just discarding his wife, Islam allows the man to take a second wife while keeping the first. However, the Quran is very specific: the man must provide for both women equally and allow them independent living quarters of equal economic status. He has to love them equally. And right after this verse the Quran adds another restriction.” She paused to say emphatically, “The Quran says, ‘And for you as a human being this will be very difficult,’ because partiality is a natural human tendency and therefore you will not be able to fulfill the recommendations in this way.”
“In my interpretation it means that really it isn't possible for men to behave so perfectly, Qanta. So yes, Allah gives them the option, but it is not easy to meet the requirements. So polygamy is not required, it is only an allowed possibility that God expects most men will not be able to handle either spiritually, emotionally, or economically—wives are expensive, my dear!”
Zubaidah had a way of explaining everything with such clarity. It was a pleasure to learn about my religion from her knee, so to speak. What basis could Faris have had to ask for a second wife, from his wife who had borne him four children, and after such a flagrantly pursued romance of which even Imran seemed to have gleaned every detail?
I made plans to meet with Fatima and investigate. Doubtless she was feeling abandoned; perhaps she could use an inquisitive friend. Though I was single for entirely different reasons, I was astounded by the excellent company I was keeping among dozens of single, never-married women in the Kingdom—many of them extremely well-educated. By 2002 an estimated one and a half million Saudi women were estimated to be never married. Simultaneously, divorce rates have risen astronomically, to one in three Saudi marriages ending in divorce by 2002. This has met with pressure to reduce the oppressive mahr sums that Zubaidah referred to, to more affordable levels, permitting remarriage and encouraging marriage at earlier ages.26
The mahr is paid either in total at the time of the marriage and may come in the form of cash, jewels, property, or a combination of all three, or if acceptable to the bride, a certain amount is paid at the beginning of marriage and the remainder deferred until after death or if the marriage is terminated based on divorce.
These mahr, properties, for instance, or sums of money, cannot be divided as assets of the marriage after divorce. The mahr is expressly for the bride and none other. In fact, if the woman does bring other assets and wealth, perhaps of her own earnings or inheritance, into a marriage of her own, Islam demands that these remain categorically hers and cannot be settled when a marriage ends, unless she chooses to share with her husband.
According to Muslim family law, always the financial obligations of the divorced wife, the nafqa, are borne by the divorced husband, but never the other way around. A wife's status is a precious, serious, and very protected one in the eyes of Islam, and Islamic law as translated by Sharia in the Kingdom is closely integrated with these beliefs, in contrast to the hypocrisy of some of the other cultural practices that are somehow sanctioned in the Kingdom.
Some women plan their marriages with a great deal of foresight, considering possibilities like polygamy. These women, in a display of Islamic feminism, consult with religious sheikhs from their local community to insert protective clauses in their marriage contracts to hold husbands accountable to certain indisputable Islamic rights for the wives they plan to marry. These documents can be effectively thought of as prenuptial agreements.2
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The women ask the sheikhs to insert clauses, known as Shurut (conditions)28 that are binding to the husband and that will protect her status after marriage; for instance, clauses that enable the woman to travel freely, the freedom to travel abroad to study, to take employment, and other liberating privileges. In order to exercise their social autonomies after marriage, these women are citing Islamic references, which in an ultraconservative world actually affirm women's rights. Sometimes the wives can specify whether or not they would permit the husband to take a second wife, and if not, they can stipulate grounds for divorce. Often the women can record in the clause that they are unsure of their possible response to the arrival of a new wife in the marriage and hold reservations permitting them to divorce on this basis if that becomes their final response.
The Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) said that of all things permissible for Muslims, divorce was most detestable. I couldn't help imagining Faris's humiliation. For many Muslims divorce carries terrible shame and a sense of failure. Faris, being a deeply religious if bumbling man, must have been devastated by what seemed like an unexpected response of divorce from his wife.
One thing was clear: like all people everywhere, Saudis longed for meaningful and intimate connection. Their behaviors spoke to trapped isolation among people who just knew no other ways to intimately connect with the opposite sex. In this hermetically-sealed, sterile environment of intense Wahabi intrusion into day-to-day living, people became desperate. Men, locked in depression and unable to communicate, sought solace in affairs, returning to their wives with second wives in tow. And what of the fate of the divorced women left behind? I made plans to meet with Fatima. I wanted to know more.
THE SAUDI DIVORCÉE
A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER, I ran into Fatima in the hallway. At least I was pretty sure it was her. This time I stopped to talk.
“Salaam alaikum, Fatima. How are you?”
Her eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Salaam alaikum, Qanta! Mashallah you look so well. Your hair looks great! You got it cut!” In a world where almost everyone was veiled, this was an unusual compliment in public. I thanked her.
“Alhumdullilah, Qanta. I am very well, and you?”
“Of course, fine, Fatima, but I have been worried about Dr. Faris. He didn't look very well yesterday. I worry he may be depressed. I am encouraging him to see his doctor.” Fatima paused, pensive, saying nothing. “And I am so sorry to hear the news of your divorce,” I continued. “That is very upsetting, Fatima. I didn't know. Actually I didn't even know you were married to each other.”
For the first time it occurred to me that I had never realized the two doctors, Fatima and Faris, had any connection to one another, even after spending so many meetings in the same room with both of them. They never acknowledged one another in public, not even with the most minimal of salaams. Usually Fatima slipped in discreetly after the meeting began, which Faris often chaired, yet somehow always left moments before the end, avoiding greeting anyone. I had always considered her a very private person. Perhaps now in my inquiries, I was being intrusive.
“Thank you, Qanta. Thank you for being concerned about Faris. Yes, we are very sad to be divorced, Qanta. But Alhumdullilah I am getting stronger every day, and Allah guides me.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Fatima? Can I assist with anything?”
“No, my dear,” she responded warmly, “but I would like you to come to my house and take tea with me. I will give you my address and my numbers. Perhaps you can visit soon. You know where the Astra compound is? Let's arrange it soon.” And handing me her details, she floated off, surging ahead through the black waterfall of her abbayah. She sounded quite excited to invite me home. I wondered what I would learn about divorced women in this Kingdom of Strangers.
The day of the visit I had been especially busy at the hospital. Running late, I rushed home and readied myself for my small outing. Astra was just a few minutes away from the compound where I lived but I would have to go there with Zachariah, the driver. I dialed the number, and quickly, securing my abbayah in one hand, a small house gift in the other, I hurried down the unlit steps to wait for him outside.
The familiar night breeze fluttered around my abbayah. I waited for the taxi headlights to materialize out of darkness. Behind me, I could feel the apartment building radiating heat, each wave of hotness pushing me farther into the cooler night. Even the ground pulsed underfoot. It was almost nine p.m. but it was still over 100°F.
Zachariah bumped into view. I got into the cab, and to the filtering sounds of an unknown symphony on a crackling radio station, we rode into the night. When we arrived at the Astra compound gate, a soldier asked for our identification. I showed my hospital badge which seemed to be enough, though I had my Iqama (national ID) at the ready. He quickly waved us through and we lurched over the speed bumps.
The compound looked different than mine. It was landscaped into wide avenues that were surrounded by large, low bungalows and two-story homes on either side. Neatly maintained lawns fronted most properties. Each avenue led, it seemed, to many others. Thousands of Saudi citizens made their homes here. Finally we approached a dimly lit cul-de-sac. A solitary street lamp buzzed in the darkness. As we rolled up to our destination I spotted Faris's white Cadillac a few houses away. So the rumors were true: husband and wife now lived in separate villas just a few homes apart.
Zachariah dropped me off and, waving him away, I walked up a tidy path. I spied a tricycle lying on its side where a child must have just flung it. A flaccid garden hose lay curled over the still-damp lawn. Inside, the lights were on. I rang the doorbell and waited.
The door opened, and a diminutive figure stood just to one side of the heavy wooden paneling. At once I could smell cardamom. Fatima must be preparing coffee. The headlamps of the taxi swept past the doorway and then faded into the dark, just as a tiny and very fair hand pulled me inwards by the sleeve of my abbayah. As the door closed behind me, I turned around and found myself looking at Fatima.
In the bright lights of her home, after the thick darkness of the Riyadh night, I was dazzled. My eyes were smarting with black spots. Fatima smiled at me shyly and after a few moments, her face curved into a wide, cerise bow. Her lipsticked smile was giant, and her pink lips over white teeth reminded me of a Cover Girl commercial. She was gorgeous in a pristine way. I was momentarily taken aback, trying to tally this image with the mumbling, shapeless figure that I knew to be her in the hospital. After an awkward pause, we greeted each other as Muslim women do, with a series of embraces. A delicate scent of jasmine rose up from her smooth, white neck. Her hair was neatly styled in a short bob that jostled from side to side with her every animation. She was slim and sporty in build. Dressed in slacks and a pretty sweater she looked like an attractive soccer mom. She was definitely an older “hottie.”
Excitedly, she bustled me into a sitting room just off her kitchen. I couldn't take my eyes off this beauty. How could Faris have wanted anything more than this woman, I caught myself thinking. I began to recognize the veiled Fatima in this, her unveiled persona. She was smiling the same mysterious Mona Lisa smile that I had always suspected she was reflecting back at me through the shadows of her veil.
Now that I could see her crow's feet, I could in fact confirm Fatima was a woman who smiled, and now I could hear, also laughed often. She was positively jolly. Her teeth were perfectly even and unusually long. She laughed a crisp, cultivated peal. Her skin was palest Caucasian, and on her hands, delicate blue veins were easily visible. Her beauty was translucent. I saw she wore no rings, at least not this evening.
“I am so glad you agreed to come for a visit, Qanta,” she started, obviously pleased.
“Me too, Fatima! Thank you for inviting me. Where are the children?” I asked immediately noticing the silence.
“Oh, tonight they visit their father, but they will be home soon. Inshallah, I wanted you to come when I had time to be free of distractions.” She giggled. As I faced
her on the sofa, my eye was drawn to the gingham curtains hanging over a window in the kitchen, by the sink. Carefully tied back with ribbon, they revealed a pretty domesticity that somehow I hadn't expected. I felt suddenly sad, knowing this had not been enough for her husband. Though the view was nothing but a concrete wall (expected of course in the Kingdom where privacy is so intensely guarded) Fatima obviously wanted to make a home out of her drab surroundings. Rubbermaid gloves on the faucet were drying. Someone had just finished doing the dishes. Fatima was a house-proud Saudi. She was trying hard to make a home out of an anonymous villa. Faris had left this cozy picture. Having put his wife in an unbearable position, he had no choice but to move out.
“So how are you doing, Fatima?” I asked as she busied herself making coffee for us. She laid a plate of my favorite cookies on the table: ma'moul (flour-covered cookies stuffed with dates). I reached out to eat one.
“Alhumdullilah I am in much better shape now, but these have been some very difficult months, Qanta, I can't tell you.” I waited for her, munching on the delicious ma'moul that was melting in my mouth.
Unable to speak, Fatima allowed herself to express some of her sorrow. “You know Faris and I were married for a long time. Mashallah we have three children.” She drew me to pictures of the children that were scattered around the room. I looked into the faces of two sons and a daughter, wondering what their lives were like.
“Faris was chosen for me by my father. We knew his family. It was a very good match. We knew he was from Mecca, a Hijazi, and perhaps with a different outlook from our family. We are from the interior, the Najd,” she explained. “But I think even after all these years I didn't really know him. He is difficult, he is changeable, he has some terrible moods. I think you are right, he may suffer from depression.” She paused, looking at me for a moment. Nearby, the kettle puttered to a boil. I watched the steam rise into swirling patterns which then condensed into a fog on the nearby windowpane.