In the Land of Invisible Women

by Qanta Ahmed

  “Qanta, let me make the coffee. I gave the house maid her evening off tonight. I wanted us to be alone so we can speak freely.” I watched as she mixed the coffee, bringing it to a boil, scenting it with cardamom which she had freshly ground in a mortar and pestle. Finally she poured the concoction into a special thermos to keep it piping hot.

  “Faris's family life was unstable growing up. I don't think his mother and father had a good relationship, and his father had more than one wife.” She looked at me, almost triumphantly. “So you see I was very shocked when he came to me seeking my permission for him to marry Noura.” This must be the name of the cardiologist. “I mean, like all marriages we had our good times and bad times, but I never saw this coming. I think they met at work, and you know Faris. He is very kind-hearted, to a fault. I think he just felt like helping her and perhaps he became too involved. I don't know. I cannot bear to really hear the details, but he did make it clear to her he already had a wife and children. She still was prepared to be with him and so I think he had decided in his brain he was going to marry her, and that she would be wife number two!” She puffed with incredulity.

  “Well, for me that was totally unacceptable. I could never allow it. I told him that if he insisted, I would divorce him. He continued to insist on his rights as a man, the right to have more than one wife. I didn't agree with this and so I divorced him at once. It was a matter of days. We didn't even go through mediation. For me it was clear: I didn't ask for divorce, I demanded it. He was violating my rights as a wife. I had told him from the start of the marriage I would not tolerate this. I am an educated woman. I am fellowship-trained from Cleveland Clinic, Qanta. I am the only Saudi woman with these credentials.”

  Her voice was climbing into an unsteady crescendo. I was worried that she would start to cry, but rather her high color, and the rare streaks of anger she allowed herself, began to show in her eyes and her white, high-boned cheeks. She was furious, not tearful.

  “I thought I was marrying an educated man, and you know Faris is a trained scholar in Islam. He should know better the proper reasons for taking another wife, and you know he cannot really afford that either. After all, I am a working mom! He attended the clerical school here in Riyadh where he was studying Islam in detail before attending to his medical school. He should know better than to behave like this.”

  “I understand, Fatima. It must be very difficult to consider sharing a husband,” I offered clumsily. “How are the kids doing?” I decided to change the subject, unsure how much more candid Fatima might become about my chairman.

  “Oh Qanta, that is the worst part. They are crying constantly. They miss seeing their mom and dad together, and you know the two eldest go and live with their father. I had no options about that; it is the way. The little one is with me now. But in a few years he can also decide to be with his father if he wishes. I may possibly be living alone a few years from now.”

  Her beauty finally crumpled as she wept for her loss into a bundle of tissues. After a while, twisting the tissues into a soggy rope in her elegant fingers, she settled down and continued.

  “You must know Islam has provided guidance on where and how the children of the divorced must live?” I indicated my lack of knowledge. I had no idea on the rulings of custody in Islam. I had barely any knowledge about marriage in Islam let alone the death of one.

  “OK, let me teach you.” She flashed me a dazzling smile. I was always struck at how eager the Muslims in the Kingdom were to educate me on matters of religious scholarship. It was a reflection of their passionate belief.

  Over the next several hours Fatima explained to me how families resolved divorce, always with the interests of the children as the foremost consideration. Islamic teachings demarcate three stages in childhood: the age of weaning, the age of discretion, and the age of sexual maturity. Weaning usually means until about the age of two, and discretion until about the age of seven or nine (when a child can express his or her free will and understand the choices). In between, the child matures until he or she reaches the age of sexual maturity and is an adult. These stages determine custody of children in the event of a divorce. Fatima explained the custody of her children in these terms:

  “My eldest son is fourteen and my daughter is twelve. The littlest has just turned five years old. Faris and I decided that the eldest boy would be better served in the company of his father now that he is becoming a man, and in fact at his age the custody usually goes to the father anyway. My daughter expressed a desire to live with Faris, so she is with him. She has reached the age of discretion so she is allowed to choose where she will live.” Fatima looked wistful and after a short pause, explained further.

  “She is a very caring soul and I think was very worried about how her father would cope without me. I of course supported her choice to live with him and I see her all the time. She is not far from me. You know, Faris's house is that one over there.” She drew back the curtain pointing to a house across the cul-de-sac. “So of course they play together all day, the kids. The little one is still not at the age of discretion and Islam favors his custody to me, the mother. He will stay with me until, like his sister and brother, he is old enough to make his own choices.”

  I already knew Riyadh was ruled according to Sharia law determined by the Riyadh clergy. In the Kingdom, a Saudi mother is allowed to maintain custody of sons until the age of nine, and female children until age seven after which the father's custodial rights take precedence. Most importantly, Sharia courts always dictate that the child go to the home most likely to foster the purest Islamic environment. In Fatima's case, both the father and mother could provide this, so in the court's eyes this wasn't a dilemma.

  Saudi fathers always maintain legal custody even when the mother is Saudi herself. By law he retains all rights over where his children live and travel. My eyes widened as Fatima reassured me.

  “Thank God Faris and I have a good relationship that we can still communicate respectfully. He would never take the children away from me, and he knows I provide them stability and support, which is hard for him to do. You know about his nighttime duties at the King's Majlis, I assume?” I nodded, remembering his sleep-deprived weariness, which greeted us so often in morning report in the ICU. She wanted to explain more. I asked her what would prevail if she married outside her religion.

  “The custody is also affected if I decide to marry a non-Muslim after divorce, which of course I will never do.” Fatima giggled at such a preposterous possibility. “If I did, I would lose custody by remarrying a non-Muslim, or if I decided to live in a home of nonrelatives. Do you see, Qanta, our customs seek to preserve families even when the marriage is broken? Our laws guarantee that the child's religious upbringing is not compromised. God forbid if something happens to Faris, even if he knows my wishes to keep the children together, Sharia law allows custody of children to be awarded to the closest male relative of a Saudi father. That might be a difficult one to fight. I don't know. Inshallah, I hope it never comes to that.”

  I was stunned. A divorce here truly meant the destruction of a family. Not only parents separating but brothers and sisters too. And where was the emphasis on motherhood which I had learned from the tiniest age, from my father: “first comes your mother, your mother, your mother, then your father,” in a paraphrase of The Prophet's words12 when asked to determine which parent is most revered in Islam. In a society where family was the base-unit kernel to every community, divorce was atomizing societies into particles that could never consolidate together in the same way. What had been once an indisputable sense of unity in community—the basic nuclear family—was just as fractured and damaged as in suburban America. The Saudis were struggling with the same issues we did in the States. I had more questions.

  “But Fatima, tell me more about divorce. How do you know it is time to end a marriage? What is this mediation process, designed to put the brakes on an angry couple? What were the negotiations that you refused really to con
sider?”

  Fatima locked her clear gaze onto me, pausing to consider her response. “You are right. There are several stages that have to pass when either the husband or the wife has decided to seek divorce.” Her face had become grave. The smiling bow was transiently unfolded into a firmed jaw. I concentrated to follow her detailed explanations.

  Fatima explained that if a man did inform his wife of the desire to divorce, using the word “Talaq,” and he uttered it serially, three times, after that the marriage can only be dissolved after three months and not in that instant, a commonly held misperception. Muslims must continue to live in their married home under the same roof but retreat from sexual relations during that time. In fact the wait is determined by three cycles of the woman's period. In this way the wife will discover if she may be unknowingly pregnant and if so, the divorcing husband will be required to meet his responsibilities for the new baby. But equally important, however, is that these three months can be a useful cooling-off period in which they hopefully seek a reconciliation, which is also permitted in Islam. If the husband and wife do reconcile, at anytime during this period they are permitted to re-enter the marriage without a need for a new contract or a new ceremony or even a new mahr. I glanced at the ticking clock. It was growing late.

  “In fact,” Fatima continued, “this three-cycle waiting period can be repeated, but if there is mention or demand of divorce a third time, then it cannot be avoided. It becomes permanent, irrevocable. For me it became very clear Faris and I could not agree on this central issue. There was no other solution but to dissolve our fifteen-year marriage.”

  I wanted to know more. “In the States some couples do re-marry even after divorce. Is this allowed according to Islam?”

  “Yes, Qanta, a man is allowed to re-marry the same woman twice. After the third divorce she becomes haram for him to marry. Forbidden.”

  “So perhaps you and Faris will reconcile one day?” I asked hopefully.

  She threw her head back in disbelief. “No chance, Qanta. This is for good.” She offered me more coffee, which I accepted. I watched her pour the thin, golden liquid into the small cup. She poured herself some more too and curled her legs up onto the sofa, kicking off her sandals.

  “So Fatima, what about you? If not Faris, will you think of marrying again? Or are you done?”

  She smiled indulgently to herself and finally in a peal of giggles, looked up at me, quite girlish for a woman of forty-seven.

  “Oh yes, Qanta. This time I will marry for romance, for love, for passion! I don't want any more children. Alhumdullilah I have three, Mashallah, long may they live. No, this time I will be completely selfish. I want to be with a man who will take me to Paris and Geneva. I want to have flowers and chocolates and see movies. I want to be courted and cherished!” She hugged her knees tight like a teenager dreaming about her high school crush.

  “Wow, that sounds great, Fatima. Where will you find that? What kind of man will he be? Will he be a Saudi?”

  “Of course he will, Qanta. I am going to marry a man who is already married. I don't want to marry a naïve bachelor. I want to marry a man whose primary needs are already met.” I was nonplussed. She had just denied her husband the opportunity of a second wife, but she was willing to adopt that very role herself?

  “I couldn't imagine anything more undesirable, Fatima, than to be with an unavailable man. Where is the fun in that? You would always be second best. Please, I don't understand, can you explain this more clearly? I have never met a woman who wanted to marry a married man. I mean, that's the worst nightmare of every single woman in America.”

  “Well, Qanta, I have my busy career, my professional conferences, my meetings. My career demands a lot of time. And then I also raise my children. I don't have energy to do this again for another man. I don't want to, in fact. I am not a young girl anymore. I am a forty-seven-year-old woman of the world.” I severely doubted her “of the world” statement, but I couldn't deny that she had already raised a family. She was bubbling on in excitement, oblivious to my reaction.

  “And most Saudi men would not accept a Saudi wife dedicating so much time to her work. Sometimes I must come in and read emergency biopsies at inconvenient or very late times. You know that.” I nodded in confirmation. “But if I married a man who already had one wife, perhaps even two, then there would obviously be evenings when he didn't require me, nights that would be my own, when I can do whatever I chose, whether work at the hospital or take a bubble bath at home. I would have freedom!”

  “Marrying a man who is married means freedom to you?”

  “Yes, Qanta, of course.” And again she giggled.

  I was dumbfounded. This was actually something she wanted. “But why didn't you want Faris to have the same freedom?”

  “That is completely different! It was not my wish. He was doing that for his own comfort, not for mine.”

  She sounded bitter. I wondered if she had been uncherished in her marriage to a limited, possibly depressed man. Although Faris was universally accepted to be extremely kind, perhaps meaningful intimacy truly eluded him.

  “No, now it is time for me to think of myself. After fifteen years of marriage I want to be selfish. I want something for me, a man who comes to me because he desires me, wants me, wants to spoil me and make me laugh. He is under no obligations to be with me for children. He just wants me for myself. I tell you, that is what I want, and what I will seek! Khalaas!” With the familiar Saudi vernacular for “that's it” or “that's the end of it” she bustled up to the kitchen to make more coffee. She had said the final word on the matter.

  I sipped my coffee in puzzled silence. There was something sad and incredibly deprived about Fatima's juvenile aspirations, as though she was planning to finally live her teenage dreams in her later years. Where would her children fit into this scenario with a polygamous man? Did she really believe she would have the carefree, globetrotting trysts of a girlish imagination in a marriage to a married Saudi man? Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps that could be possible. But as I watched her slipping her hands into the Rubbermaid gloves to clean out the dregs from the coffee thermos, I severely doubted it. Her life was already half-gone in a marriage cemented around children, not passion. A brilliantly intelligent woman, these years had muted, eroded her blossoming passion, and now I doubted she would ever find sincere partnership in a man in her society. From what I had seen it was highly unlikely. Fatima was a Saudi divorcée and likely to always remain so.

  Today she remains without a partner. She never remarried, though Faris eventually did. Her whirlwind romance with a Saudi polygamist never did arrive. But Fatima remains hopeful. Despite her weakening sight, she can still see her dreams clearly.

  ___________________

  12 In al-Bakhari Kitab al-Adab (Cairo, Matba'at al-Sha'b). Hadith describing the Prophet's response when asked by a man: “And who among people is most deserving of my good companionship?” And the Prophet responded, “Your mother,” “And who deserves it next?” “Your mother,” “And who after that?” “Your mother,” “And after that?” “Your father.”

  DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES

  I HAD ARRIVED ALONE AT the hotel. Hurrying through the lobby in my abbayah, fearful of the omnipresent Muttawa who could appear without warning, I scurried toward the ladies' hall. Finding it at last by following my nose (there was a cloying smell of heavy scent), I stepped into a ballroom, joining the other ladies. I allowed myself out of my abbayah, comfortable in a room full of women. We were in segregated company. Filipina waitresses circulated with Arabic coffee and sweets. Following the others' lead, I allowed my abbayah to hang from my chair. I chose a spot toward the back of the room.

  It was a wintry evening. In anticipation for the cold return journey later that evening, I had come warmly dressed. I quickly discovered I was the most covered woman in the wedding hall, but my itching turtleneck and hot feet were quickly forgotten as I watched the spectacle unfold.

  Nadija adjuste
d her veil in the final moments before she stepped into the blazing spotlights. She stood just a couple of yards from where I sat. I studied the young Saudi bride.

  She stood alone. Behind her, two female relatives, bustling in jewel-colored evening gowns, coaxed her toward the staged platform where she would be on display. Nadija was a member of the lower middle class. Unlike her colleague, Zubaidah, she really needed her small salary. Nevertheless, her family had pulled out all the stops at her wedding.

  She was dressed exactly like an American bride. She wore a huge, white bridal gown complete with a lace veil that draped over her face, reaching almost to her knees. The dress was pure 1950s Hollywood; all hoop and lace. I was reminded of a young Grace Kelly without the restraining elegance. Everything about the gown and the bride was overdone. The sweetheart neckline was cut low, exposing a young and unblemished cleavage. Her décol-letage shuddered under the glacial air conditioning showering from high ceilings. She shivered. Goose-bumped arms were smoothly outlined in shimmering sleeves of jeweled lace, the wrists reaching to the middle of her hand and looping over the middle finger to secure them in place. She rustled as she moved nervously to her destiny.

  I looked at her heavily made-up face, studying her profile. Her eyes were deeply lined, her complexion rouged into a vibrant plum, and around her eyes, layers of glitter shone above arched, long brow bones. Unfortunately the makeup conferred a preternaturally startled look on her pretty face. Liquid brown eyes shot brief glances around the room, fearful and nervous as a puppy. Even so, I could still detect ephemeral flutters of excitement behind the carefully painted mask of makeup. Periodically, she broke into a nervous, deeply dimpled smile, exposing a single chip in an upper incisor. This slight, charming imperfection of her toothy grin was the only genuine beauty resilient under the thick dunes of an airbrushed foundation. I watched as she fluttered in her steps, tremulous with circulating adrenaline. I wondered if she thought of her groom.