Divorce Islamic Style (9781609458942)

by Lakhous, Amara

  “Some day or other I’ll cut the fingers on one hand and they’ll throw me out of work without a second thought. My head isn’t right.”

  “You have to pay attention.”

  “I can’t. I went to the doctor and he gave me some tranquilizers and sleeping pills.”

  “It’s a bad time, but it will pass.”

  “I even got an ulcer. I’ve been waiting for the new residency permit for a year and a half.”

  Mohammed tells me about his odyssey for the residency permit—a long, ugly story. The latest immigration law reduced the term of the permit from four years to two, and the police stations, which handle the permits, freaked out. The renewal shouldn’t take more than three weeks. But that’s a purely theoretical time frame. In practice, immigrants have to wait Biblical lengths of time, as long as two years, so it’s possible to get a residency permit that has already expired. While you’re waiting for a new document you’re issued a small coupon, just a piece of paper with a number on it, which has no legal value: the holder can’t open a bank account, travel abroad, buy a car, legally rent a house, and so on. It’s not even any good for wiping your ass! In effect, the immigrant becomes semi-illegal, held hostage by the law.

  My fellow-tenant has a full heart and wants to relieve himself. He talks about the racism he’s had to endure in Italy.

  “The word ‘Moroccan’ doesn’t refer to someone from Morocco. It’s an insult, that’s all, like nigger, fag, bastard . . . You know why the Italians hate the Moroccans so much?”

  “No, why?”

  “They say that during the Second World War Moroccan soldiers raped a lot of Italian women.”

  “But that really did happen.”

  “I don’t deny it. But why should I pay the price? And then those soldier bastards fought under the French flag, not the Moroccan. Shouldn’t they have been arrested and punished for what they did?”

  Mohammed’s words make me reflect on the imaginary Italian collective. The women raped by Moroccan soldiers during the Allied advance toward Rome were called the “Marocchinate.” The whole episode is still taboo, in spite of La Ciociara, the great De Sica film. Italian soldiers, too, were guilty of rape, in Ethiopia and Somalia. U lupu r’a mala cuscienza comu opera piensa—the wolf with a bad conscience thinks the worst of everyone. Is it right to blame the poor Moroccan immigrants of today?

  After lunch I stop off at Little Cairo. I glance quickly at the news on Al Jazeera, there’s a story on the war in Iraq. Unfortu­nately the situation gets worse every day. By now people are speaking openly of civil war, total war, between Shiites and Sunnis, between Kurds and Arabs, between Muslims and Christians. In short, all against all. There are plenty of Iraqis today who look back nostalgically at Saddam Hussein. They say that at least during the dictatorship you didn’t die in a bombing while you were shopping at the market or attending a funeral. You can see they’ve forgotten the repression, the torture, the assassinations, and the slaughters suffered during the time of Saddam.

  Later I decide to call “my family” in Tunis. I dial the number, the “mamma” doesn’t answer, as usual, but a male voice. “Hi! It’s your brother Adel. How are you?” I don’t remember if he’s older or younger than me. But it’s a marginal fact. The important thing is to keep up the conversation by asking circumstantial questions. How are you? What are you doing? How’s the family? Friends? Neighbors? I’m content just to listen to his answers. My “brother” focuses on his new job at the bank and I let him talk. Every so often I stick in some nonsense to maintain appearances and encourage him to go on.

  At a certain point I turn to my right and I see a girl in a veil who is weeping as she talks on the phone. Shit, what a beautiful girl! Her expression gets to me. I look at her for a few minutes while I’m pretending to listen to Adel. She’s so overwhelmed that she’s not even aware of her tears. Suddenly she returns to reality, tries to arrange her scarf, digs in her purse but doesn’t find what she’s looking for. I can see what she needs. I say goodbye to my “brother” and hang up. I leave the booth, and wait for the girl to finish her call and come out.

  “Here, take this tissue.”

  “Thank you.”

  I can’t see her face too well. But the word “thank you” is enough for me to guess that she’s Egyptian and to register the sound of her voice. I watch her go to Akram to pay; she leaves without turning around. I’d like to know who she is and why she was crying. I’m tempted to follow her, or at least ask Akram for information. He knows everyone and could surely satisfy my curiosity, but I resist. A veiled young woman on Viale Marconi can’t be a student, so very likely she’s a married woman. Better not to take the risk. I have to control myself in order not to compromise the mission.

  Around six I go to my appointment with Captain Judas in Via Nazionale. I arrive early and take the opportunity to have a shower. I’m disgusting, smelly, I stink like a fish seller or a tramp. In the Viale Marconi apartment if you want to wash you have to get up at dawn, before the others, because the hot water heater barely functions. The hot water is gone after one shower, at most two. The landlady acts like a deaf-mute, she has no intention of coughing up the money to buy a new one. She’s hoarding for another vacation. So you have to settle for whatever works. Many of us heat water in the kitchen for an old-fashioned shower, with a big cup and basin.

  After the shower, while I’m waiting for Judas, I go online to check my e-mail. There are fifty e-mails in the in-box: three from my (real) sister, Elena, two from my (real) brother, Carlo, one from my (real) little sister Sandra, and fifteen from Marta. What happened? I read the messages from my girlfriend in chronological order backwards. Luckily nothing to worry about. Of course, she wants to know how I am and especially why I haven’t been in touch. She’s right—she’s not being unreasonable or capricious. I should call her right away. As a precaution I use a prepaid phone card. Officially I’m abroad.

  “Hi Marta, it’s Christian.”

  “Love! How are things in Tunis?”

  “Fine, you?”

  “Why haven’t you called? Why haven’t you answered my e-mails? Why . . . ”

  Marta really likes the word “why.” I don’t. I know her well. We’ve been together for four years. I let her keep talking, get it all out, in order to avoid answering her questions. Oh, it may be a cliché, but with women it always works. And then this time I have no choice, I’m obliged to keep silent, because I’m bound by state secrets. The end of every conversation with Marta is always the same:

  “Christian, do you love me?”

  “Of course I love you.”

  “Christian, you’re the love of my life!”

  Afterward I call my family. That goes smoothly. No worries. By now they’re used to my travels, or maybe they know that in Tunis I’m as comfortable as in my own home, so they’re not worried about anything. I have time to telephone my two sisters and my brother for a quick hello.

  Captain Judas arrives. We have a coffee before setting to work on Al Qaeda’s Web threats against Italy. I take advantage of the calm to attempt an intervention.

  “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “What do you need, Tunisian?”

  “Can you help Mohamed get his residency permit?”

  “Who might this Mohammed be?”

  “My Moroccan fellow-tenant.”

  “What sort of request is that, Tunisian? Have you forgotten the goal of your mission?”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten anything.”

  “Instead of uncovering terrorists you’re turning into a social worker. Congratulations!”

  “I’m doing as much as I can.”

  “It’s not enough!”

  I listen reluctantly to the captain’s scolding. By now I know his words by heart, like: “The terrorists are ready to strike in Rome”; “All hell’s about to break loose, worse than the attacks in New York or Madrid.” Or: “We’re playing in the final seconds.” The absolute worst is this: “You’ll make me look like s
hit to my American and Egyptian colleagues.” They all want results, and now.

  Maybe he just needs to vent. I should put myself in his shoes. He’s under heavy pressure from his superiors. He’s in the line of fire and if something goes wrong he’ll pay. But really, I’m doing as much as I can. What else can I do?

  Anyway, before we say goodbye he promises he’ll intervene to solve Mohammed’s problem. Can I trust an officer in the secret service who, besides, is named Judas? We’ll see!

  Sofia

  I wake up every day at six, and by now I’m used to this rhythm. I don’t need the alarm clock. The architect, on the other hand, sleeps until noon. Monday is his day off. In Italy a lot of restaurants are closed on the first day of the week. Apart from Monday his schedule is always the same: he goes to work at four and comes home after twelve-thirty, eats, watches the Arabic satellite channels (especially Madame Al Jazeera) until dawn, then goes to sleep. He doesn’t miss anything, because there are repeats. He is very well informed when it comes to international affairs, such as the war in Iraq, the Iranian nuclear program, Hezbollah, Hamas, etc. If you heard him speak on these subjects you would say without hesitation that he is not a pizza maker but an analyst in some institute for strategic studies. In other words, he could be the U.N. Secretary General’s envoy to the Middle East. He has all the necessary qualifications.

  About what happens in Italy, on the contrary, he knows almost nothing. His theory is very simple: if Al Jazeera doesn’t talk about it, that means that nothing important happens here. He’s always instructing me not to trust the Italian media. Why? Because they discuss Islam in a negative way: a religion of hatred and violence that can only incite holy war. All Muslims are fanatical terrorists, ready to blow themselves up without a second thought.

  I don’t agree with the architect. I’ve often told him that he’s making a big mistake. When you live in a country, you should give precedence to the local news. For example, I find the local news on RAI 3 really interesting because it gives me a lot of useful information about Rome and the surrounding area. I want to know how things are here in Rome, not in Kabul or Baghdad. You see?

  The satellite channels have become real traps for the Arab immigrants. They create a dependence on one’s native country. How can you live split between two countries? I can’t follow the daily news of Italy and the Arab world at the same time. You have to choose. It’s not that complicated, or am I wrong?

  I have a lot of free time during the day, because I don’t work. I am, as they say, a housewife. I do my best not to get bored. Time is something precious, and I always find something worthwhile to do. In the morning I finish the cleaning quickly and spend a couple of hours studying Italian. I’m self-taught; I learned the language on my own—I never took a course. I often use the dictionary to understand the meaning of difficult words, and I have a notebook where I write down new words. Thank God I have a talent for languages and a personal method for learning. I place enormous importance on pronunciation. To speak a language well you have to practice it. This is fundamental. I listen to Italian radio and watch the television channels to get my ear used to the musicality of the words. Italian is the most musical language. There’s always something to learn. I hardly ever watch the Arab channels; they’re unbearable because of the amount of politics and soap operas.

  As an Egyptian, I grew up with homemade soap operas. The Brazilian, Mexican, and Turkish ones came much later. Thanks to the satellite, they’ve had a wide circulation. Over time, I got fed up with them. I said enough of these tearjerker shows. The scripts always had (and still do have, alas) the same ingredients: a man and a woman (one of the two has to be starving) love each other, but they can’t crown their love with marriage. Usually, it’s the rich family that gets in the way. The two main characters do their utmost to resist, and to overcome all the obstacles. In the last episode, they triumph: she in her white dress and he in a suit and tie. And they lived happily ever after, as Scheherazade says at the end of her stories in the Thousand and One Nights.

  I often get compliments on how well I speak Italian. I’ve been mistaken for an Italian who has converted to Islam or for someone who was born in Italy or came here as a child. And so? So what. I like it when people don’t stop at my veil but look beyond it. Still going on about the damn veil? No, I have no intention of talking about the veil, at least right now. Later on we’ll see.

  Anyway, my daughter, Aida, is very good, like me, while her father is a real disaster: like many Egyptians he can’t pronounce “p.” A “b” is dragged into its place. You can imagine the result. You want a taste? No problem. Here’s a short sketch. The setting is Little Cairo. On the stage are two actors: Said Ahmed Metwalli alias Felice alias my husband and another orphan of the letter “p.” The dialogue is strictly in Italian, no subtitles or dubbing.

  “My friend, too much time has bassed. What a bleasure to see you.”

  “The bleasure is mine.”

  “Where have you been, Barma?”

  “Not Barma, Baris. I went there to work.”

  “Still a bizza maker?”

  “Yes, I’m really an exbert at bizza.”

  “Tell me, you still do the brayer?”

  “Of course, brayer is very imbortant. Second billar of Islam.”

  “Combliments. You’re a true bracticing Muslim.”

  “And how are you?”

  “Today not well, I’ve got stomach broblems.”

  “Why? What did you have for lunch?”

  “Chicken and botatoes, but too sbicy.”

  “You boor thing.”

  “The stomach is like a wife, never leaves you in beace.”

  “You’ve got it berfectly right. Hahaha.”

  The finale is amusing. Remarks by husbands about wives always work. They’ll give you a good laugh, provided they’re made to men.

  Aida is four, and she speaks both Arabic and Italian well. She’s very quick. I’m her teacher. Since I don’t have a job (I mean officially), it didn’t make sense to enroll her in a nursery school. And then finding a place takes a miracle. The schools are all full. The birth rate in Italy is the lowest in Europe, and you still need a lot of connections to get a place. In this way, Italy isn’t very different from the Arab countries and the third world: nepotism is a widespread practice. Thank God there are immigrant women who continue to have children in spite of the problems they face. So? So what. I see a lot of old people, and in the parks there are more dogs than children! In the future, God only knows what will happen. Is Italy becoming a country without children?

  I often listen to the radio while I’m cleaning the house. This morning on one of the RAI channels there were two experts talking about Islamic terrorism. I was really struck by a statement one of them made: “The root of the evil is inherent in an Islam that is physiologically violent and historically marked by conflict. The real problem is that Muslims don’t know what love is.” The other comments: “But Christians, Jews, and Hindus have also used violence in the name of religion. For us Catholics it’s enough to remember the Inquisition in the Middle Ages.”

  I keep repeating to myself this phrase: Muslims don’t know what love is. It’s a heavy sentence, without appeal. It means that we are animals, barbarians, inhuman! In other words, people who have no right to live. I turn off the radio and put on a CD of Om Kalthoum, the singer of love. The song is called Enta omri, “You Are My Life.”

  Your eyes have brought me back to the days that are gone

  They have taught me to regret the past and its wounds.

  Around ten I take Aida to the park in Piazza Meucci so she can play with the other children. Outside the house she likes calling me Sofia and not mamma. In the park I meet other young mothers, and we start chatting about this and that.

  I sit down next to Giulia, a Roman woman I’ve known for two years. We’ve become friends. She works part time in a real-estate agency. She’s thirty-eight and has a lively little boy. She often talks about the difficult
ies of having a child in Italy. If you don’t have parents behind you—and they have to be in good health, too—you won’t get anywhere. She’s always saying, “In Italy you either have a job or have kids, the two together never work out.” Many women, especially those employed as freelance workers, lose their jobs as soon as they go on maternity leave. They have no security. Giulia regrets the disappearance of the extended family, which made life less stressful, because the child care was divided among grandparents, aunts, cousins . . .

  Giulia isn’t married, but she lives with the man who is the father of her son. She never calls him her husband, but her companion. She’s not a wife but a companion. They live under the same roof and share the same bed, yet they’re not married! It’s a situation that’s rather complicated for an Egyptian Muslim like me to understand. Of course, I’m not stupid. When people explain things to me I understand. I have to admit that the problem is not in understanding but in accepting. Does companion mean friend or not? A husband is one thing, a friend another. And so? So what. In other words, in between there’s a sexual relationship, or am I wrong? It’s not unimportant. The truth is that I can’t put myself in her place: I can’t imagine living with a man, and also having a child by him, without marriage. For me it’s impossible. In Islam it’s called zina, adultery, and is severely punished. In this case there’s no difference in how a man and a woman are treated: a hundred lashes if the two guilty ones are unmarried. If they’re already married the punishment is stoning, which is an atrocious death. These corporal punishments are applied in Iran and a few other countries. In Egypt, and in the majority of Muslim countries, the set punishment is jail. A child born outside of marriage is called ibn zina, the child of adultery. Society will consider him not a victim but rather an accomplice in a very serious crime.

  Giulia has explained to me many times why couples prefer living together to marriage. The percentage of divorce in Italy is very high. Every year people marry less and divorce more. Before settling down with someone, you have to seriously consider the possibility of divorce. Then, there’s another important element: divorce is very expensive in Italy, because of the bureaucracy. Most people who get divorced have to spend a lot of money, plus they have to wait at least three years.