“I understand Italian perfectly. You are rude.”
“Look at this! A speaking mummy! Why don’t you go back to your own country! Why do you come here to make trouble, to spread fanaticism and plant bombs, eh?”
“You’re an imbecile.”
“Go back to Afghanistan in your burka, or else I’m gonna get really pissed off and give you a beating.”
The imbecile gives me a shove, and I lose my balance and fall down. Aida starts crying. I feel a knot in my throat. I can hardly breathe. People gather in a circle around us to enjoy the show entitled “The Veiled Maya and the Racist Idiot.” Someone reaches out a hand to help me up. Now I can’t keep from crying. I struggle to open my eyes, and I see him: the nameless Arab, the Arab Marcello. He says, “Ma tkhafish, don’t be afraid.” Then he speaks harshly to the imbecile. As long as I’ve lived in Italy I’ve never heard an Arab, an immigrant, a foreigner, speak such perfect Italian.
I’m preoccupied with getting Aida away immediately, because she’s really scared, and so unfortunately I leave without thanking the Arab Marcello. But in my heart of hearts I hope I’ll see him again soon. When I get home I decide not to say anything to my husband. What would be the use? Best to forget about it. I know him too well. He’ll use the affair to shut me up in the house or not let me go out by myself anymore. To tell you the truth it’s not the first time I’ve been a victim of racism. I’m sure that my veil is only a pretext. Nuns also wear a sort of veil. Why doesn’t anything happen to them? And what about girls who wear miniskirts or go around half naked? They’re free and I’m not? That’s not right! What happened to all the fine speeches about democracy, individual freedom, and the right to diversity?
Over time I’ve become united with my veil. Yes, I really have. It’s true that I didn’t choose it, but now it’s the symbol of my identity; rather, it’s a second skin. And so? So what. I not only have to accept it; I have to defend it publicly. It’s not a question of the veil, the clothing, the fabric, it’s a question of dignity. If they don’t accept my veil it means that they reject my religion, my culture, my country, my language, my family—in other words, my entire existence. And that is unacceptable.
I make lunch for the architect and Aida. I have no appetite myself. I’m still shaken by what happened at the market. It’s not easy to put up with insults. Damn racists, they’re just ignorant. That brute thought my veil was a burkha! They are two extremely different things. And then he told me to go and live in Afghanistan! Let him go there, he’s nothing but a nasty imbecile. What do I have to do with a burka and Afghanistan?
At four my husband leaves the house to go to work. I get ready to go down to the second floor, to Samira’s. Today I have a professional appointment, a new client is waiting, a girl who wants to change her hairstyle. Suddenly the doorbell rings, and I go to open the door.
“Assalamu aleikum, sister.”
“Aleikum salam.”
What a surprise. With no warning, Aisha, alias Signora Haram, has come to see me. She’s the wife of the butcher Rami, who pretends to be an imam and is crazy about prohibitions. Paola, that’s her real name, is an Italian who converted to Islam ten years ago. She’s more or less my age and wears the niqab, oh Lord, that complete veil which covers the entire body except the eyes. Her great ambition is to someday bring us the fashion item of the century: the burka on Viale Marconi and environs! Let’s hope she never succeeds.
“Sister, I’ve come to give you some advice.”
“You want to lead me back on the right path?”
“Look, consider me an older sister who only wants what’s best for you.”
“Excuse me, get to the point. I’ve got an appointment.”
“Exactly. I would like to talk to you about your secret work.”
“My secret work?”
“I know that you cut hair at Samira’s.”
“So?”
“It’s haram, strictly forbidden by Islam.”
“Why?”
“We should encourage women to conceal their hair, not display it, to excite men.”
“But I cut hair for non-Muslim women.”
“You have a duty to convert them to Islam, the only salvation in this world.”
“I see. Is there something else?”
“I heard what happened in the market this morning.”
“In the market?”
“Yes, the attack of that godless criminal.”
“I see you’re very well informed.”
“Let’s say frankly that the reason is your colored veil.”
“My veil?”
“In Islam it must be black.”
“Really?”
“A colored veil causes confusion and temptation, that is, fitna.”
“Really? Who says so?”
“There’s a fatwa.”
“A fatwa against my veil! Issued by whom? By your husband’s halal butcher shop?”
“I will not allow you to insult my husband. He’s a very respectable imam.”
“Imam? And where did he study Islam? Maybe at the University of Al Azhar?”
“Don’t be funny.”
“No, you and your husband stop spreading extremist opinions.”
“Us, extremists? We are true Muslims.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Don’t kid yourself.”
“You are a kafira, an unbeliever.”
“That’s enough. Get out of my house.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
She’s threatening me! When it comes to Islam, all she knows is fitna and fatwa. She accused me of being an unbeliever. But I’m a good Muslim. That’s it, I can’t stand her, I don’t want her around. Enough is enough!
I met Aisha when I arrived in Rome. She invited me to a meeting with other Egyptian and Arab women. The theme of the discussion was the superiority of Islam and the impossibility of living with Christians and Jews. This idea did not convince me, either then or now, because in high school my best friend was a Coptic Christian. That was my first and last meeting at her house. I never went back.
If I remember correctly, she came to see me here at home a couple of times. The first time she wanted to talk to me about the absolute obedience we owe our husbands. Husbands or God? No, husbands! Really. I would say that my grandmother is more liberated than she is. The second time was to collect money for the opening of a new mosque organized by her husband. I have doubts about her mental health. She’s like a programmed robot. I think her husband the butcher, playing the imam, has decisively infected her with fanaticism.
I go to Samira’s house, trying to forget the face of that stupid Signora Haram. My new client is waiting for me. She’s a psychology student who says she got my number from a friend. I’m pleased that the word of mouth system is functioning. I’m working for my professional future. It will all be easier when I open my hairdressing salon for women, inshallah. I’ve already got the name. Guess what it is: Sofia’s Salon.
I like to talk to my clients before I start using the scissors. In my opinion, hair is an important part of character. And this is especially true for women. For instance, a woman who’s depressed begins to neglect her hair first of all. Taking care of your hair requires commitment and constancy, it’s not something you do from time to time. It has to become a daily habit. It’s like having a garden on your head, which has to be tended to every day.
That’s it, I’m a sort of gardener, I cut hair very delicately, as if I were cutting flowers. Of course, like all occupations this one has its secrets. To be a hairdresser it’s not enough to have scissors and a comb. It’s important to observe the face carefully — forehead, eyes, nose, neck—and the rest of the body as well. In other words, you have to look for physical and psychological harmony.
The girl is very pleased with the haircut. She promises not only that she’ll return but will do some advertising for me. When she leaves I have tea with Samira. I take the opportunity to tell her the dream about the Trevi fountain. At the end of the story com
es my friend’s interpretation, punctual and precise.
“Maybe your heart has found its soul mate.”
“Which means?”
“That is, you’re in love!”
“Come on, Samira, don’t make fun of me like the Gypsies who read your palm. I’m a married woman with a child.”
“So what? You’re a married woman, in love not with your husband but with another man.”
“But it’s only a dream.”
“No, the dream is an inner voice that comes directly from the heart.”
According to Samira, I have all the symptoms of love. I don’t deny that I like the Arab Marcello. But I’m a married woman with a child. I don’t want to act like a teenager. Of course, my married life isn’t going well. Just the other day the architect returned to the subject that is so dear to him: having a second child. I don’t want to fight. The problem is that I’ve run out of arguments against it: life is expensive, let’s wait a while, it’s not the right moment, I agree but . . . et cetera. The truth is that I don’t want to have another child with him. I don’t feel like it. That’s all. But I have a feeling that this business will not end here. I know my husband, when he gets something into his mind there’s no way to make him change it. Let’s just hope for the best.
Issa
As I’m about to leave the house Omar the Bangladeshi stops me, saying he wants to talk to me. We sit in the kitchen, across from each other. This time Omar isn’t smiling. He looks at me seriously and with some concern.
“Tunisian, you’ve got to get out right away!”
“Get out? Why?”
“Have you forgotten everything?”
“What have I forgotten?”
“The fight at the market?”
“The fight because of that girl with the veil?”
Of course—Omar works at the market on Viale Marconi, so he was present at the fight with that racist asshole. I had to intervene to stop him. I didn’t think twice about helping that beautiful woman in the veil, whom I’d followed from the park in Piazza Meucci. To hell with Judas’s precautions! I also discovered then that the little girl isn’t her daughter because she called her by her name: Sofia.
That bastard. We nearly came to blows after yelling insults. Anyway, a strange thing happened. While the shit was digging in his pocket for something, maybe a knife, a young man stopped him. I recognized him—it was Antar, my Egyptian “colleague.” But what was he doing here on the sidelines? Had he come to shop or was he here for some business having to do with our mission?
Omar is worried about my safety because he knows the other guy well. His nickname says it all: the Beast. He’s a neighborhood bully and has a criminal record. “He’s a dangerous ex-convict,” the Bangladeshi repeats. He says he’s sworn to get me at the first opportunity. He already knows all about me: who I am, where I come from, where I work, where I live. In other words, I’d better keep a lookout.
“You see, Tunisian? You’ve got to leave right away.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“He’s a violent criminal. He’s already beaten up a lot of immigrants. You challenged him in public.”
“So?”
“He’ll get his revenge.”
“I don’t care.”
“It’s not worth risking your life, Tunisian.”
I’ve got a little problem. I have to admit I underestimated the situation. Maybe I should talk to Captain Judas about it. Certainly he won’t be happy. I went way beyond the job he assigned me. But the positive thing is that I’m becoming the Robin Hood of the poor immigrants of Viale Marconi.
After breakfast, cappuccino and a cornetto with jam, I go to Little Cairo. It’s the ideal place to meet new people and get information of various types without being noticed. It’s like being in a train station or an airport, everyone is worrying about himself and just doesn’t have time to bother about his neighbor. In other words, no one is aware of your presence. My cover is effective: I live and work in the neighborhood. But it’s pointless to keep talking about cover if I’m not getting results.
I call the family in Tunis, my “mamma” answers. This time we spend the whole time on“papa’s” business situation. Business is getting worse and worse, the grocery store isn’t doing as well as it used to. He’s decided to try something new, because of the unfair and ruthless competition from the supermarkets. The big fish eats the little fish, as the proverb says.
After the phone call I glance at Al Jazeera. There’s no big news, in spite of George W. Bush’s wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. People are expecting another one, against Iran, or maybe Syria. Bush the son is a hopeless Texan; as a child he was a fan of Westerns—he was crazy about the phrase “Wanted, Dead or Alive.” He wanted to be a sheriff when he grew up; fate granted his wish beyond his rosiest expectations. Instead of being just a sheriff in Texas, he is expanding onto a planetary scale. Can you be happy while the world goes to hell? And what about climate change? And the hole in the ozone layer? Forget about it. I once read an article in a magazine that said that coming generations won’t know what snow is. But not to panic, skiing won’t disappear: there will be artificial snow. In short, the future promises nothing good? But don’t be ridiculous!
I go up to two young Egyptians, one with a big nose and the other with a scar on his forehead. What are they talking about? About the possible amnesty for illegal immigrants. A fixed idea, a real obsession for a lot of people. In these days I’ve been able study the subject. I can join the discussion with no problems. Here at Little Cairo no one pays attention to formalities, the public debates are open to all—something like the May 1st concert at the church of San Giovanni. Before interrupting I pretend to be listening seriously. The conversation is heating up. Anyway, even I will have some nonsense to say or a position to support. Too bad, though, I’m not in time to open my mouth.
Suddenly a guy with a thick black beard comes in. He’s wearing a loose white shirt, and scent. He booms out an Assalamu aleikum that reaches the ears of every single person in Little Cairo. Shit, what a voice! He could be a muezzin with no need for a loudspeaker. He’s kind of savage-looking, incredible—he’s like an actor stepping out of a film set in the time of the Prophet Mohammed. While he stops to chat with Akram, the guy with the big nose turns to me and says in a whisper, “God help us!”
“Who’s that?”
“Rami, the butcher. Everyone calls him Signor Haram, but behind his back.”
“Why is he called that?”
The guy doesn’t answer. He seems afraid. Of whom? And why? What’s going on? Problems related to Egyptian solidarity. After a couple of minutes Signor Haram says goodbye to Akram but instead of leaving he turns, comes over to us, and gives me a strong handshake. The guy with the big nose is trembling. Signor Haram asks the guy with the scar about his sick child, then looks at me and says, staring into my eyes,
“Hello, brother, we don’t know each other.”
“I’ve only lived on Viale Marconi a short time.”
“Welcome! I’m Sheikh Rami.”
“My name is Issa, I’m Tunisian.”
“There’s no difference between Egyptians and Tunisians. We are all brothers in Islam.”
I nod, with a timid smile; I prefer not to fuel this conversation. It’s better to listen and to answer possible questions very prudently. Signor Haram leaves me alone (for the moment?) and turns his attention to the guy with the big nose—on with the interrogation.
“Brother, I don’t see you anymore at the mosque, don’t tell me you’ve given up prayer?”
“No, I always pray.”
“So you go to another mosque?”
“No, I pray at home.”
“Ah, you pray at home. And why?”
“I don’t have time to go to the mosque.”
“You don’t have time to devote to Almighty God, eh?”
“No, I don’t mean that.”
“May God forgive you.”
“ . . . ”
&nbs
p; “Are you still working as a pizza maker?”
“Yes.”
“In the same Italian restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve told you repeatedly that that work is haram. Why do you persist on the path of sin, eh?”
“I’m a good Muslim. I recite the prayers every day.”
“That’s not enough. Do you make pizza with prosciutto, yes or no?”
“Yes, but I don’t eat pork and I’ve never taken a drop of wine.”
“Don’t say ‘but.’ Touching pork is haram. This is not a personal opinion; it’s a fatwa from our great teachers.”
“But it’s the only work I know how to do. If I leave it I could end up unemployed.”
“Brother, you should have more faith in God. If you are obedient and follow his rules he will never abandon you. God Almighty says in the Koran that he will provide for all of his creatures.”
The kid with the big nose doesn’t respond, he seems resigned to defeat. Signor Haram continues his sermon, quoting verses from the Koran and repeatedly citing the example of the Prophet. He’s very excited, he seems utterly convinced that he’s right, or, rather, that he possesses the absolute truth. At some point he remembers my presence.
“And what mosque do you pray in?”
“None.”
“So you, too, pray at home?”
“No, I don’t pray.”
“What? Aren’t you a Muslim?”
“I’m a Muslim, but I’m not observant.”
“That’s very serious, brother. May God lead you on the right path!”
“Amen.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a dishwasher.”
“Where?”
“In an Italian restaurant.”
“Then my earlier discussion goes for you, too, brother.”
How wonderful! He devotes five generous minutes to explaining to me that my job as a dishwasher is haram. The reason? Always the same. Touching pork and alcoholic beverages is an impure act. As a result, the money I earn, even cleaning the toilets, is like stolen money or drug money.
Before he leaves us, Signor Haram shakes our hands again, harder than before. He wants to leave his mark, not with words alone. Watching him go, I wonder if this is all just a joke. But unfortunately no, Signor Haram has spoken the truth. The fatwa prohibiting Muslim immigrants from working in restaurants is a real disaster. What will happen to the pizza makers, cooks, dishwashers (like me), barmen, and waiters? The overwhelming majority of Egyptians in Italy work in restaurants. What a mess!
Divorce Islamic Style (9781609458942) Page 10