Recently the religious authorities at Al Azhar University woke up. (Better late than never.) They stated that female circumcision is not a religious obligation, and that, in fact, it’s harmful to women’s health. So if that’s the case, why don’t they ban it immediately, as they did rape and drugs? Damn the devil! All they have to say is, “The circumcision of girls is haram.” Some time ago I heard on the radio that the Italian parliament is drafting a law against female circumcision, which is still practiced in some immigrant communities in Italy. I’m in favor. It’s a further protection for girls like my daughter.
Samira comes from Algeria, and in the Maghreb female circumcision doesn’t exist. Why are the majority of Egyptian girls circumcised? Why is it so prevalent in Egypt (even among Coptic Christians), in Sudan, and in the countries of the Gulf, but not anywhere else? This proves that female circumcision is not a religious obligation like prayer and Ramadan.
Maybe it’s more correct to speak of genital mutilation? Women who suffer the torture of female circumcision should be considered victims of war. I think female circumcision is like rape. There’s no difference. I have no doubts about this. What sense does it make to exchange traditions that should be respected for customs that are disastrous and dangerous to the religion itself? Of course we can always say that Islam has nothing to do with it. But what can we say about Muslims? Are they responsible or not? Are the parents of girls innocent or complicit?
Two years ago I saw a really good documentary on TV. It was about a French surgeon who specializes in the reconstruction of the clitoris. This is not cosmetic surgery. Many, many women, victims of the worst domestic violence, go to this surgeon to regain their dignity. It’s a simple operation, and there’s no danger to the woman’s health.
It would be fantastic if my sister Zeineb could have the operation. A wonderful dream that would put an end to the nightmare of the toothless witch. The operation is expensive. For my part, I’m doing all I can to help her, by saving some money. So I continue to cut hair secretly in Samira’s apartment. The architect knows nothing about it. I hide the money behind the couch in the living room. I can’t open an account in a bank or the post office.
A few weeks ago I saw the film La Ciociara, with Sophia Loren, for the third time. It takes place during the Second World War, and it’s very sad. Loren plays a young mother who flees Rome with her daughter because of the bombing. The two take refuge in the countryside. At the end of the movie they’re raped in an abandoned bombed-out church by a bunch of soldiers in turbans. Giulia told me that they were Moroccans. This scene makes me cry, because I identify, every time, with both the mother and the daughter.
Being in the park without the company of Dorina and Giulia is not the greatest. A woman in a veil sitting by herself on a public bench does not go unnoticed. I prefer to avoid the problem, so I leave.
I go to the Marconi library. Maybe I’ll find a movie in VHS to borrow. There aren’t many people here today. I take the opportunity to glance at the papers. What a surprise! What a pleasant surprise! From a distance I see the Arab Marcello, sitting near the window, reading a magazine. I can’t pretend I don’t see him. I have to say hello.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“I wanted to thank you for what you did the other day at the market.”
“I didn’t do anything. It’s a duty.”
“Sadly there’s always a rotten apple among the good ones.”
“Right. No need to generalize.”
“Not all Italians are ignorant or racist.”
“Luckily.”
“I don’t want to disturb you.”
“You’re not disturbing me at all.”
“I’ll let you read. Thanks again.”
“Not at all.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Why do I turn red? Damn! I forgot to ask him his name. But that’s not really a problem. He already has a name: the Arab Marcello. Where is he from? From his accent he doesn’t seem Egyptian, or Palestinian, or Lebanese, or Syrian, or Iraqi. I must say that he speaks like Samira. It’s true. And so? So what. He must be Algerian. I could solve the puzzle of his native country if I had a recording of his voice to submit to my best friend for examination. Samira always says: “I can tell if someone is Algerian with no problem at all, a word or a glance is enough.” I must absolutely arrange for her to see him. The sixth sense exists. And also feminine intuition, we might add. May I say that we women don’t miss anything, or am I wrong?
At lunch my architect tries to draw me into a dangerous discussion that is on the verge of turning into an argument. But I really don’t feel like arguing.
“You know Akram’s wife is pregnant?”
“Really?”
“Yes, Akram will be a father for the fourth time. Lucky him.”
“Mabruk, congratulations.”
“We, on the other hand, can’t give Aida a little brother.”
“It’s maktùb.”
“Maktùb has nothing to do with it. God has given us health. We’re healthy.”
“Thank God.”
“It’s you who don’t want to.”
“I’m sorry, it’s not the moment to talk about this. I’ve had a terrible headache since this morning. I’m going to take an aspirin and lie down for a while.”
Usually I don’t use the feminine ruse of the headache to avoid some “conjugal obligation.” But in this situation I can’t do anything else. I have no alternatives. I’m sorry, this time I’m not going to fall for it like a fly in the honey jar.
Have another child now? He absolutely shouldn’t talk about it. Akram can be a father for the fourth time or the fortieth, I don’t give a damn about him. God alone knows how many children that secret polygamist has brought into the world.
Around six I take Aida and go to Samira’s. As soon as she sees me she cries, “Sofia, I have a surprise for you!”
“Really?”
“Yes, I’ve managed to record the play with Adel Imam.”
“Which one?”
“Sayed the Servant.”
Fantastic! It’s a comedy from the late eighties or early nineties, very famous in the Arab world. What’s it about? Well, it tells the story of Sayed, a young servant in a wealthy family. His life is turned upside down after the daughter of the house is divorced for the third time. In exchange for a sum of money, Sayed receives a proposal to be the muhàllil, that is, to marry the girl and then divorce her, so that she’ll be able to return to her first husband. What? I’ve already explained the business of divorce in Islam. O.K., I’ll repeat it, but this is the last time. Couples are allowed two divorces; after the third no reconciliation is possible. If a couple wants to go back to being husband and wife she has to marry another man, strictly Muslim, consummate the marriage, and then divorce him. Is it clear now?
Back to Sayed, the servant. After he marries the rich girl, things get complicated, because Sayed refuses to divorce her. The two fall in love. The actor Adel Imam is extraordinary. You could die laughing.
I go home and watch the wonderful Divorce Italian Style, with Marcello Mastroianni. The story is entertaining. A Sicilian baron sets up the perfect plot to get rid of his wife and marry another, younger woman, and then . . .
Issa
I wake up around eight. I don’t feel like getting in line for the bathroom. I’m thinking about going to wash my face in the kitchen sink and then heading out to the café to pee in the bathroom there. What to do? The truth is that I feel kind of down, so I decide to lie in bed for a few minutes. In a hurry I’m not. I start thinking about the mission, this damn Little Cairo operation. So far I’ve gotten no concrete results. It’s not easy to flush out professional terrorists who are ready for anything, even death. I dodge the disagreeable question: where is the Goma-2 Eco hidden?
Saber rushes into the room. He’s just had a shower, a serious undertaking in this shitty house. He is all sweet-smelling. Lucky him. He’s fit and, as usual, i
n a good mood. Does he have a date with Simona Barberini? Anything is possible. He stares at me and says with a mischievous smile:
“You know who’s coming on to me?”
“Simona Barberini?”
“I wish!”
“Who?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Come on.”
“Teresa, the landlady.”
“Teresa!”
“Yes. She wants me to go to bed with her.”
“Really?”
“Issa, brebare yourself. Next time will be your turn.”
“I can’t wait.”
Saber tells me a few things about Teresa alias Vacation. It seems that she has a weakness for young Arabs, and this would explain her frequent trips to the Middle East and North Africa. I don’t think Saber is a liar who invents stuff out of whole cloth. Probably he’s telling the truth. His theory is convincing.
“You know why Teresa rents the house to us?”
“To make money.”
“No. She’s rich. There’s another reason.”
“What is it?”
“Teresa uses the abartment to attract new studs. You get it now?”
Saber tries to lend support to his argument by citing the cases of many young Arabs seduced by Signora Teresa. If you agree to play the game you can have a lot of benefits, like, for example, not paying rent. Saber has already refused an invitation to dinner, which is the first step to ending up in her bed.
“Issa, you remember Teresa’s sby?”
“Yes.”
“Now we have brove.”
“Who is it?”
“Omar, the Bangladeshi.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. The Bangladeshi always live among themselves. Why did he come to live with us?”
On the way out I see Ibrahima sitting in the kitchen by himself, staring at the ceiling. Strange, what’s he doing here at this hour? Usually he goes out early in the morning to sell his counterfeit purses. I greet him and sit down across from him. The Senegalese has a sad, weary expression and he avoids looking me in the eyes. He doesn’t seem to feel like joking.
“You look kind of down, Ibrahima.”
“I’ve got some problems, brother.”
“Family?”
“No, work, even if according to the law I don’t work, I’m still a smuggler and a fence. To them I’m a criminal.”
“But what happened?”
“The cops are bastards—they gave me another fine and confiscated all my merchandise, damn it.”
Ibrahim explains to me briefly his difficult situation. He’s not worried about the fine, because over the years he’s collected a lot of fines and has never paid one. The real problem is the confiscation of the merchandise. Now he has no capital and can’t buy new merchandise. The wholesalers aren’t generous and understanding the way they used to be. Today most of them are Chinese and they won’t accept a promise to pay, they want the money immediately. Ibrahima is worried not so much for himself as for the support of his family in Senegal.
“Brother, it’s hard to be the father of a family. Every month I have to send two hundred euros.”
“How will you manage now?”
“I don’t know. Worse than the fine and the loss of the merchandise, one of the cops insulted me, a cop con la facia da cul de can da cacia—with a face like a hound’s ass, as they say in Milan.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He called me a filthy shit black bastard son of slaves.”
“Dirty racist bastard!”
“Brother, in Italy there’s racism among the Italians themselves. In Milan they say ‘Hey, southerner. Go back where you came from.’ In other words, fuck off.”
Yesterday “Hey, southerner,” today “Hey, non-European, Moroccan, black.” What should we do? It sort of makes me laugh to hear the Senegalese speaking the Milanese dialect. I know that Captain Judas will not be very happy about my initiative. He’ll tell me I’m acting like a social worker or a volunteer for some charity, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve decided to give Ibrahima two hundred euros. At first he won’t accept it—we all have our money problems, he says, it’s not right. But I insist until I persuade him. We agree on the fact that it’s a loan (without interest and to be repaid as soon as possible). Ibrahima gives me a warm embrace.
I go to the bar with a double objective: to pee and to get breakfast. In the end I give up the cornetto and am satisfied with an espresso to cheer myself up. I realize I’ve gotten very thin. I don’t have to rack my brains to discover the reason. I’m stressed. It certainly would be better not to let my real mother see me. I’m practically unrecognizable.
After the coffee I go over to Little Cairo. I call the “family” in Tunisia. A male voice answers: “It’s your father.” My Tunisian “papa”! What a surprise. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him. The phone call goes without complications for two reasons. One, a good Arab son shouldn’t talk to his father but listen. It’s a sign of respect. Second, I know about his business troubles, so I confine myself to asking for news. My “father” is very succinct, not like the “mamma.” Five minutes is enough for him to summarize the matter. Now he’s found a tiny opening, a way of getting out of the crisis: transform the grocery store into a call center. You have to keep up with the changes in society. Before the final goodbye he gives me a series of instructions: don’t drink alcoholic beverages, don’t spend time with criminals, don’t get into debt, etc. Nothing about women. It’s a delicate subject. Arab fathers are old-fashioned, it’s not easy for them to talk to their sons about women and, especially, sex.
After the phone call, I’m kind of at loose ends, so I settle in to watch TV. It’s always the same channel, Al Jazeera. There’s a repeat of a program about women. I sit glued to the screen, because the subject is interesting: sexual molestation in the Arab world. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve heard Muslim women speak openly about sexuality on television. It’s a real cultural revolution. A couple of years ago in Tunis I met a graduate student from Oxford who was doing a thesis on Al Jazeera. According to him a democratization is taking place in the Arab countries, thanks to the satellite channels. The autocratic regimes are no longer able to exercise censorship. People are beginning to speak more freely on three taboo subjects: sex, politics, and religion. Too bad, the program’s over, I got here too late.
Coming out of Little Cairo I run into Felice. He’s with four people I don’t know. They seem to be holding a small public meeting.
“Assalamu aleikum.”
“Aleikum salam, Issa. We’re talking about something of interest to you. Let me introduce brother Zaki, the imam of the Mosque of Peace. We’re discussing the fatwa against working in Italian restaurants.”
Here’s the imam they’ve talked about so much. And always in positive terms. His nickname, Signor Halal, was probably given to him to contrast with that of the butcher, Imam Rami alias Signor Haram. He’s around forty, well dressed, without the loose shirt or the beard. He has chosen to speak in a simple, clear Italian, not Arabic. It takes me a few minutes to understand the reason: among the listeners is a convert who doesn’t know Arabic; his name is Alessandro, but he’s called Ali.
Signor Halal has a calm way of speaking; he never raises his voice. He is able to take apart Signor Haram’s fatwa point by point, asserting the principle under which the context should take precedence over the text. The Koran has to be interpreted on the basis of the reality we live in. It’s damaging to import fatwas from the outside. He notes several times that there is more religious freedom in Italy than in many Muslim countries.
It really seems that Signor Haram’s shock fatwa is foundering. Signor Halal is quoting the Prophet when he says, “Facilitate, don’t complicate.” So the ultimate message is clear: Muslims are allowed to work in Italian and other Western restaurants.
Before I go to work I stop at Via Nazionale to see Captain Judas. He hasn’t arrived yet and I take advantage of t
hat to have a shower. Then I go online and glance at my email. Seventy-nine unread messages. More than half are from Marta. Shit, better to call her right away. This time, too, I use a prepaid card.
“Hi Marta, it’s Christian.”
“Christian! Where have you been? Why haven’t you answered my emails?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve had a lot to do.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me your number in Tunis.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain everything, but not now.”
“Christian, where are you calling from?”
“From Tunis.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Are you leaving me, Christian?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Is there someone else, Christian? Tell me the truth. I have the right to know.”
“What are you talking about? There’s no other woman, Marta. You’re the only one for me.”
“You bastard, Christian!”
There, Marta’s tantrum arrives right on schedule. It takes me a while to calm her down. I promise to call her more often. I hope to keep my word, otherwise it’s going to end badly. I make a rapid series of calls to say hello to my real family, the one that lives in Mazara del Vallo. Everything’s O.K. Everyone’s fine. No news, good news!
The girl with the veil comes to mind—I don’t know why. Last time she had a CD of Om Kalthoum’s, and since I’ve got a good memory, I remember what the title song was: Awedt Einy, “I’m Used to Seeing You.” I look for it on the Arabic music sites and find it easily. I put on the headphones and listen to the song.
My eyes are used to seeing you
My heart has delivered my will to you
I feel happy when you look at me
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