Mediteranean Sunset

by Yvette Canoura

  I kept insisting about the love issue.

  “How many people get married in this country based on love and wind up getting divorced a few years later?” she asked.

  She had a point.

  “Divorce rarely happens in our country. We stay together till death,” she assured me.

  “What about the four wives issue?” I asked.

  “The Muslim religion allows a man to marry up to four wives as long as he can provide equal financial and emotional stability. When I thought I couldn’t have a child, I encouraged your father to have a second wife. I wanted him to have children even if it meant sharing his love. He had the means but he chose not to do it.”

  “I totally disagree with the concept of multiple wives. Baba did the right thing. I would never accept my husband marrying another woman, under any circumstances.”

  “It’s the man’s decision,” my mother insisted. “Don’t start drilling your father about these issues. Let’s keep this conversation to ourselves. You must be exhausted if you haven’t gone to bed yet. Brush your teeth and get a few hours of sleep,” Mama said giving us a kiss.

  Jamila and I kept talking. She told me that she could not wait for her parents to call with the news that someone had asked for her hand in marriage.

  “That’s my dream. A nice Muslim man who can take care of me and with whom I can start a family,” Jamila said.

  “I want to pick my own husband. It has to be someone I am madly in love with,” I replied.

  “I’ll be madly in love as time goes by. As long as he loves me, I will be happy,” she insisted.

  That was one topic Jamila and I could never agree on. Yet, I respected her ideas.

  That was our first and last conversation about love and marriage. Jamila’s shot at happily ever after had arrived sooner than I could have expected and within a few months she was on her way back to Antarah.

  Jamila was beside herself. Everything had worked out as she hoped. She was getting her chance to meet prince charming. Her fiance was young, handsome and from a prominent family. He was actually a distant cousin. She was about to make her dreams of marriage and having a family of her own come true.

  Although I was happy for Jamila, I was also devastated because I was losing my best friend. Her life was about to undergo a drastic change. She was about to become a wife.

  Before she left, we vowed to write to each other, and we kept our promise. I missed her so much and was comforted to know that she was in love and happy. Marriage was everything she had imagined and more.

  Love & Marriage

  It had been months since I read the book on Antarah but I still had many unanswered questions. I felt so guilty breaking my promise to Mama but I had many restless nights trying to make sense of it all.

  One morning, I made sure Mama was still asleep and rushed to Baba’s study, locking the door. I needed a man’s perspective, and who better to ask than the only man I trusted and respected.

  “You’re up early, habeebtee,” he said.

  “Baba, Mama gave me a book on Antarah for my birthday. She also made me promise not to burden you with questions about love, marriage…but I just need to know.”

  “What’s this all about, Fatima?” he asked concerned.

  “Before I ask you, please tell me that this will be our little secret. I don’t want to disappoint Mama.”

  “Come here, habeebtee,” he said lovingly. “You know that I’ll always be here for you and will answer any question. This conversation will stay between us, I promise.”

  “Thank you, Baba,” I said, kissing his hand.

  “So, what do you want to know?”

  “Why can a Muslim man marry up to four wives?”

  “What does this have to do with the book on Antarah?”

  “It just sparked a conversation one evening and that happened to come up.”

  “You know I’m not a religious man, but when I was a young boy I studied the Qur’an and asked many questions just like you. Islam gives a man permission to marry two, three, or four women only on the condition that he deals justly with them. He has to be fair with all his wives, and treat them equally, emotionally and financially, which is very difficult. For example, he has to provide separate living accommodations for each of his wives. Since it is very hard to be fair with all wives, in practice, most Muslim men do not do this. Therefore, having more than one wife in Islam is not a rule or an order, but an exception.”

  “But isn’t this unfair to women?”

  “The reason for multiple wives in Islam is not to satisfy men’s desires, but for the welfare of the widows and the orphans of the wars. During war times, many women were unable to find husbands, so, many preferred to be a co-wife than to have no husband and father figure for their children.”

  “How about when Mama thought she couldn’t have a baby?”

  “If a man’s wife is sterile and can’t give him a child, he has the right to marry another woman. However, men are prohibited from cheating on their wives. A man can’t marry another woman without his wife’s consent because she might refuse such a request, and in this case it’s her right to ask for a divorce. I had accepted Allah’s will. I had no interest in any woman but your mother. I had come to terms with not being a father if that’s what God wanted. Yet, your Mama loved me so much she was willing to share my love for me to become a father.”

  “She loves you so much, Baba.”

  “I love her too. So you see, women have rights in Islam. Don’t think that men have all the power and can do whatever they want. A woman is a beautiful gift from Allah and she should get the utmost respect. I wouldn’t want anything but the best for my habeebtee.”

  “Thanks, Baba,” I said giving him a big hug. “I love you.”

  “I love you more sweetheart.”

  In England...

  “I have a confession to make. Before I met you, I already knew about you. I read an article on you in some campus or town publication. I can’t remember. I was driven to your ambition, determination, and passion. It reminded me of me.”

  “So Fouad, what exactly are you trying to tell me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I want you. I want to share my future with you.”

  “A future in Antarah. Are you out of your mind?”

  “With Rauf’s help, I’ll move up the military ranks and become Antarah’s next president.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll go all the way. But president might be a stretch.”

  “Not with you by my side.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to be Antarah’s first lady? Share the power and glory. Go to the United States and be recognized not only for your contributions to their country but also respected and praised for your efforts in Antarah.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’d have the world at your feet. All it would take is a plan. Sacrifices would have to be made, but in the end, we would have each other and everything we’ve ever wanted. I trust you and I need you.”

  Esmaa started unbuttoning Fouad’s shirt and kissing his chest.

  “I like the fact that you trust me,” she whispered in his ear. “Talking to me about power is a real turn on.”

  “You are a real turn on,” he said ripping her shirt off. “I usually take what I want, but I’ve waited patiently for this moment.”

  “I’ve wanted you since the day we met, but sometimes a girl needs to play hard to get.”

  “There’s no room for games anymore.”

  “I know. I can’t wait any longer. I want you now.”

  Fouad cleared a desk full of papers with a sweep of his arm and lifted her onto the hard, wooden surface. He started removing the rest of her clothing with fierce desperation. She responded in the same way. Undressed, he pinned her arms down with his strong hands and placed his
entire fiery body over hers. He kissed her intensely leaving passion marks all over her delicate skin.

  Then, when she begged him to satisfy her desires, their bodies came together until the moaning left them breathless.

  Fouad slid off the table, lit a cigarette and sat on a chair.

  “I’m glad you weren’t my first,” Esmaa said as she pulled herself up and stayed seated on the desk.

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Yes,” she said signaling for a drag of his cigarette. “If you would’ve been my first, you would’ve killed me. All that passion, who knew?”

  “It was all bottled up inside just for you, Esmaa,” he said getting up to continue where they left off.

  “We need to talk,” she said gently pushing his chest with her hand.

  “I’m not going anywhere. What’s wrong?”

  “Were you serious earlier? About us? ”

  “Absolutely. I’m counting on your brains and your body to achieve my plans.”

  “Isn’t that a little presumptuous of you?”

  “Who are you kidding? We are one and the same. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “How do you know I’m not working for Antarah’s government and just using you to find out if you’re a traitor?”

  Wrapping his arm around her neck and pressing his body against hers, he softly whispered, “People who double cross me never live to talk about it.”

  “I would expect nothing less from you,” she responded, as he loosened his grip allowing her to turn towards him.

  As she began kissing his chest, she slid off the desk and worked her way down as she gave Fouad pleasure. He responded by carrying her to the bed and making love to her again and again.

  After several hours, they showered. He put a robe on and she wore one of his shirts.

  “Where do we go from here?” she asked removing a single cigarette from a pack.

  “Business as usual,” Fouad replied while lighting her cigarette. “You go back to Texas and finish your nuclear engineering degree. I go back to Antarah and play the role of Rauf’s devoted friend, get close to the president and earn my promotions. We see each other sporadically until I get closer to our target.”

  “And, how much time are we looking at?”

  “A few years, maybe longer. As long as it takes to succeed. Can you wait that long?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “Well Fouad, what I want are four to five years to achieve my personal goals,” she said putting out her cigarette then twirling her ring with her thumb.

  “What you want is irrelevant if I need you before then.” He put out his cigarette.

  “I’ll be ready. Just let me know.”

  “Enough talk. Come here,” he proceeded tearing off her shirt. “I leave for Antarah tomorrow so, let’s make tonight unforgettable.”

  A Loss

  Afew years had passed since my sweet sixteen. Now, I was starting a new chapter in my life. After graduation, I enrolled at Smith College in Massachusetts to major in psychology. I picked Smith not only for it’s fine reputation among women’s colleges but also, because it offered a Master’s in Social Work, which was my career goal.

  I was a grounded young woman, eager to help others. During my travels, I had seen a lot of poverty and suffering. I wanted to make a difference in the world and thought this would be a beginning.

  I loved college life. I was out of the house, was more independent, did not have my usual watchdogs and made my own decisions. I had many friends, a few brief romances, nothing like Antarah and Ablah, and a lot of temptations.

  Yet, I always remembered my father’s words, “All you have is your honor and the honor of your family name.”

  I was in my third semester of college when I came home for four days to celebrate the Muslim holiday, Eid. It was a joyous time. All of our family who lived in the States gathered at our house for this celebration. Samira prepared our favorite dishes and sweets. The house was filled with love and laughter.

  This year was different. Everyone was there but all the laughter had turned to sadness. My mother had been diagnosed with cancer three months earlier. I was kept in the dark until I arrived home.

  My mother, who was bedridden, asked to see me right before her passing.

  “Habeebtee Fatme, you’re the biggest gift Allah has ever given me. When I found out I was pregnant, I thought I would burst with excitement. You’ve been an ideal daughter. You’ve made me proud and have filled my life with a happiness I never knew existed. I was blessed with your love and your father’s love. My life was better than I could have ever imagined. My sickness is Allah’s will. Don’t cry for me. Instead, thank God for the life we had together and for all of God’s blessings.”

  Tears just rolled down my cheeks. I felt it was so unfair that she would not be by my side on my graduation day, my wedding day, and my child’s first birthday.

  She wiped my tears and took off her favorite bracelet with a heart locket.

  “This is for you. Your father gave it to me when we got engaged. I want you to keep it so you can always remember me and all the happiness we shared,” Mama said. “You and your father are my heart.”

  I immediately put it on my wrist and opened the heart. There was a tiny picture of my father and me. Three days later, she passed away.

  The bracelet was the only piece of jewelry I never took off. This always made me feel like I had a piece of her with me.

  Shocked and in disbelief, I was angry with my father for keeping her illness from me. Had I known, I would have spent those last months by her side.

  “Habeebtee, I’m so sorry but your mother didn’t want to disturb your studies,” he said “I went along with her wishes. If it makes you feel better, I spent a lot of time with her and did my best to make her happy.”

  I could see he was holding back his tears. After thirty-two years of marriage, I really did not know how he would go on without her. I hugged him and reassured him that everything would be all right. He pulled himself together for my sake, although I knew inside he was devastated. The day she died was the saddest day of our lives.

  It was such a relief to be surrounded by family. In the Muslim religion, the closest family members of the deceased have to cleanse the body (males if the deceased is a man, females for a woman). My two aunts and I washed my mother’s body and then wrapped it in a white cloth before placing it in a wooden box to be transported to Antarah.

  My father and one of my uncles would accompany my mother’s remains to bury them by my grandparents’ side. According to our beliefs, the body had to be buried within 24 hours of the person’s passing. Therefore, I did not have much time to mourn by my father’s side. I had to stay on his behalf with the rest of the family to receive all the people that would be coming to pay their respects.

  Right before my father left for the airport, the President of the United States and the President of Antarah called offering their condolences. My mother was very loved and respected, especially in the political circuit, because she was involved in many philanthropic organizations.

  Dignitaries and friends gathered at our house offering their sympathy and support. Our sheik, Muslim cleric, was at the house reading from the Qur’an and praying for Allah to bless my mother’s soul.

  Samira must have served at least a thousand cups of ahwa, my mom’s favorite beverage. It is customary after you’ve eaten or had coffee to say “daeeme” to forever be blessed with more of the same. But, when people die, you substitute “daeeme” with “Rahmatu Allah Alleijem,” God’s mercy on her/his soul.

  It was a very difficult time for me, especially with my father and Jamila, my two closest loved ones, in Antarah. I guess I had never prepared for life without Mama.

  When my father left to go to Antarah, Jamila had reassure
d me that she would be there to comfort him through this difficult time. She and her husband had already made all the arrangements to bury my mother quickly. A few of my mother’s relatives who still lived in Antarah, including her oldest brother, would also be there.

  Samira felt it was important for me to know the ritual that took place when a Muslim person died. She believed it was time for me to learn more about my religion and she knew that, with Mama gone, she was the closest I had to a mother figure.

  “Before the body arrives” she told me, “a grave is dug perpendicular to the Qiblah, the direction in which a Muslim should pray, and the body is placed in the grave on the right side facing the Qiblah. According to Islam, the husband is not supposed to touch his wife after her death. So, another male family member, a son, father or brother, is assigned to lower the body. The wrapped body is taken out of the wooden box and placed on the ground with a piece of wood or stones to protect it so dirt does not fall directly on the body. A sheik reads passages from the Qur’an and asks for Allah to bless their soul. Afterward, the opening is covered with dirt.”

  My father told me he placed three white roses on Mama’s grave, one from him, one from me and one from Jamila who she loved like a daughter.

  I never knew how much I would miss her and need her considering the change my life was about to undergo.

  Life Turned Upside Down

  It had been a year since my mother’s passing when my father received a very disturbing call. I was home for spring break, which coincided with Eid. My father was in his study. I could hear his loud voice in Arabic trembling with anger and a thumping sound as he paced on the hardwood floor. I put my ear against the door to try to listen. Suddenly, he paused and pounded on his desk. It startled me and I remembered the morning of my sixteenth birthday. I couldn’t understand what was being said, but this behavior was very unusual for the general who kept his composure at all times. My gut told me he was speaking to the same person from years ago.