I had never heard my father sob, not even when my mother died, until that evening. I wondered what was wrong.
My mother had always been protective of my father’s private space and always warned me about asking too many questions. A powerful man like him probably had his share of enemies. I started to wonder, did he have secrets he might be hiding, and if so were they coming back to haunt him?
The next morning, Baba called me into his study. He was nervously flicking the beads of the masbaja. Then, in a very official manner, as if he were giving a military order and referring to me by my full name, he spoke.
“Fatima, right after graduation, we will be going to Antarah to meet Lieutenant Fouad Mustafa, who has requested my permission to marry you. I have accepted his request. He is the only son of one of my closest and dearest childhood friends. He comes from a respectable family. He has a solid military background with a bright future ahead of him. You will marry Lt. Mustafa and live with him in the homeland. After the religious ceremony, I will return here to my diplomatic duties. He’s given me his word that he will take good care of you. He has agreed on a new furnished home and approximately ten thousand dollars in gold jewelry. You will live very comfortably, the way you have been accustomed to. I think you’ve done very well for yourself.”
In that instance, my whole world crumbled. I felt as if my life had been sucked right out of me. All the prehistoric notions and cultural conceptions I had criticized and denounced were becoming part of my reality. I snapped out of it.
“Are you out of your mind?” I said outraged. “You expect me to leave my friends, my home, and my life to chase after this stranger in Antarah. That’s ludicrous and I just won’t do it.”
“Fatima, you have no choice.”
“What do you mean? I’m a grown woman. If Mama were alive, she would never allow this.”
“Your mother knew that this day would come and agreed that this was a wise decision. Are you going to go against her wishes?”
“I can’t believe you’re using Mama’s memory to blackmail me into this“
I kept hearing Mama’s voice, “Don’t question your father? Just do as he says.” I felt that this was what she was trying to tell me all along. But, what was I going to do in a land that I had never been exposed to? I had no family there and no mother to give me advice and tell me that it was going to be all right. My only comfort was reuniting with Jamila.
I was going to marry a man I didn’t know and didn’t love. This was infuriating and scary. I was frightened of the future and even more afraid of disappointing Mama. I knew my parents had my best interest at heart. I also knew the general wouldn’t go back on his decision. Defying his authority would go against everything they taught me. I wiped the tears from my face.
“I’ll do this for Mama’s memory but I’ll never forget the day you sold me to a perfect stranger like a whore.”
He raised his hand at me but couldn’t go through with it.
“I’m so disappointed and angry at you. I can’t stand being here a minute longer.” I walked away, defeated, then turned to face him. “Don’t try to call me unless you come to your senses and change your mind. I’ll see you in May.”
It was the first time leaving my house without kissing Baba good-bye.
I returned to Smith and wrote to Jamila explaining my unexpected twist of fate. I also waited for my father to call and tell me it had all been a joke, a big mistake, but the phone call never came.
A week later, Samira called to tell me that my father had suffered a minor stroke the day I left. He had honored my wishes of not calling me unless he had a change of heart. I immediately went home and spent the weekend by his side but never discussed our last conversation.
Back in college, I started to write him a letter explaining that I was leaving; I was disappearing because I couldn’t go through with his plans. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t betray the two people I loved most in this world; Mama who had shaped me into who I was and Baba who had taught me about family honor. Most importantly and probably the only reason I gave in to the general’s request: I had already lost Mama and I couldn’t bear the idea of being responsible for losing Baba.
The man who I knew deep in my heart had almost ruined my sixteenth birthday was also about to ruin my entire life. I was doomed to a loveless marriage in a country and a culture that I really didn’t know.My fate had been sealed with one simple phone call and I had to leave it in Allah’s hands.
The Meeting
I arrived in Antarah with Baba sporting a black, pin-striped dress suit revealing a little cleavage and some leg, and black, high- heeled pumps. It was important to wear something that made me feel in control and professional. After all, I was about to make the biggest business transaction of my life.
At the airport, we were given the red carpet treatment. Our passports were stamped; we didn’t have to go through customs and no suitcases were opened. I was relieved because of a very meticulously packed trunk filled with nearly one hundred camel figurines.
When I was a child, I remember Baba taking me to the zoo. I was so overwhelmed looking at all the animals. When we got to the camel exhibit, I asked him, “Why do camels have humps?”
“The humps are fatty tissue. If the camel can’t find food, it uses the fat for energy. Camels are called “the ships of the desert” because thousands of years ago, in southern Arabia, camels were used as transportation for people and goods that were imported and exported throughout the different countries”.
“Is it true that camels can go days without water?”
“Yes. Camels were the perfect animals for long, hot trips because they can go without drinking for up to 7 days then drink 21 gallons of water in 10 minutes,” he explained.
“Do camels live for a long time?”
“Camels can live for 40 years. They also have great memories. An abused camel will not act immediately, but will wait for years then turn on its abuser. ”
After learning all those facts, I told him that the camel was my favorite animal.
“It is smart, useful, unique and has the most beautiful eyes,” I told him.
From that day on, every trip Baba took, whether abroad or in the United States, he would always stop at a specialty shop to buy me a stuffed camel or statuette. He told me it had become a challenge to find camels since they weren’t very popular animals. These camels represented my very special childhood, a time when life was magical and I cherished every moment with Baba.
At the airport, we were greeted by military personnel, mostly close friends of my father’s. He always made it a point to bring them American cigars.
An official car awaited us. I was surprised, though, that my husband-to-be wasn’t among the welcoming party.
As we rode in the car, I noticed pictures and paintings of the president plastered everywhere. It was as if the entire country was a shrine to him. I had come across this trend in many of my travels through the Middle East. It was actually quite common for establishments and homes to display pictures of the president. This meant that you were a political supporter. If you chose not to exhibit his image, it might be interpreted as not being fully supportive of the government, maybe even being a traitor.
I never understood how the people of these predominantly Muslim countries allowed their president to assume this “mightier than God” role. I imagined it was out of fear. But, what was really disturbing was how a devout Muslim president would allow his people to worship him as if he were God. This was the kind of thought process that could really get me in trouble.
Now that we were here, the first thing I wanted to do was visit my mother’s grave. I missed her so much. I needed to be close to her and tell her how my life was in turmoil.
“Fatme, you know women aren’t allowed to visit the cemetery. We’ll stop and pick up some white roses and I’ll put them on her grave.”
Baba explained that over the grave stood a cinder block structure about three feet high, three feet wide and six feet long, painted in white. On top of the structure were two pieces of marble on each side; one representing the head, facing the East towards Mecca, and the other the feet. Between the marble pieces and centered on the blocks was a marble tombstone with the word Fatiha, prayer from the Qur’an, and under it her name, her date of birth and date of death in Muslim calendar years.
While Baba went to place the flowers on Mama’s grave, I stayed with the driver on the street. For a few minutes, I stepped out of the car for some fresh air. It was the closest I could be to my mother, and I felt her presence.
“Mama, you left when I need you the most. I miss you so much. I need your advice. I need you to hold me and assure me that everything is going to be all right. I’m afraid. My life is headed in an unexpected direction and I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I didn’t question my father’s judgment because you always told me not to defy his authority. If you were here, I know you would have spoken to Baba and convinced him that this marriage isn’t right. I guess there is nothing that can be done now,” I told myself.
Baba returned shortly after. I could tell that he was sad. He had truly aged since my mother’s passing. I think his dedication to his work was the only thing keeping him alive.
The car took us straight to the Presidential Palace. I was somewhat nervous. I had met President Saeed twice when he visited Washington but I was just a child then.
The palace was beautiful and very different from the White House. It was isolated from any neighborhood and in the outskirts of the capital. Two square miles of the palace were heavily secured. The exterior of the structure was an off white marble. The interior architectural design was very impressive with huge columns, marble floors and majestic hand carved ceilings. The walls were white with a pearl finish and were mostly decorated with countless portraits of the president ranging in size and painted by different artists from around the world. There were also huge plaques with passages from the Qur’an.
Enormous Persian rugs with rich colors and flowery designs covered large flooring areas. The dinning room could seat at least fifty guests for a formal dinner. Adorning the formal living room were more than 75 chandeliers hanging from a 16- foot ceiling. All the furniture was custom made and covered by exotic fabrics.
Many rooms had cultural artifacts such as instruments from the region. There was a collection of beautiful, hand carved and painted wooden boxes which could be used to play shutrange, chess and dama, backgammon. Also, a large glass casing that displayed objects of ancient Roman times.
Two enormous doors opened into an informal meeting room. The first thing that caught my eye was a beautiful portrait of the president with his wife, three daughters, and a son.
As I looked around, I saw several men dressed in uniform and a few women, among them the president’s wife and his youngest daughter, Rania. She was the only one of the three daughters that still lived at home. Rania was 18, with shoulder length dark hair and the least attractive of the three.
As I watched the men greet each other with a customary kiss on each cheek, I tried to guess which one of them was the one I would be marrying. I just bowed with my head acknowledging them but not looking them in the eye. The women immediately approached me and kissed me on each cheek.
“Mabruk, congratulations,” they said referring to my upcoming nuptials.
Rania stood silently in the back and only greeted me with a smile. I immediately sensed a certain tension without really knowing why.
Suddenly, President Saeed made his entrance.
“Assalamu Alaykum, peace be with you,” he said.
“Wa Alaykum Assalam, peace be with you,” everyone responded as a group.
The president walked up to us, hugged and kissed my father and then hugged me.
“Welcome to Antarah,” he told me.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“You have turned into a beautiful young woman,” the president said. “The last time I saw you, you were just a child. I hear congratulations are in order. You are marrying one of Antarah’s most eligible bachelors, one of my proteges and my son Rauf’s best friend.”
Rania, who now stood by her father, seemed saddened by his comment. I thanked the president and out of the corner of my eyes, I saw two men in their early to mid thirties enter the room.
“Here they are now. My son, Colonel Rauf Saeed and Lieutenant Fouad Mustafa. This is Fatima Abdul Aziz,” he said.
First impressions are lasting. Unfortunately, I was not too impressed. Fouad was a light skinned, six-foot tall man. He had typical Arabic features: a large nose, brown eyes, and short, wavy, dark hair with a touch of gray. The slight gap between his two front teeth made his grin appear fake. He was not bad looking, but he was not my type. There was something about him that made me uneasy. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, like he was God’s gift to women. I do not know why, I just felt I could not trust him.
The moment was awkward. I did not know if I should speak or extend my hand. All I could do was look down and wait for him to make a move. He spoke in broken English.
“Welcome to Antarah,” he said as I looked up and smiled although my first instinct was to run and keep running until I could disappear.
I just did not have the guts to do it. I stood there patiently while I felt him discretely looking at me. This made me very uncomfortable. It was as if he was examining his prize to see if it measured up to his expectations.
Lieutenant Mustafa took my father to the side. I suspected they were making some kind of arrangement. After what seemed like a lifetime, my father came back and told me he had instructed the driver to take me to visit Jamila.
“But father, what about you?” I said.
“Fatme, unfortunately, I can’t go. It is customary for the father of the bride to spend some time with his future son-in-law before the wedding. Please, tell Jamila I will see her within the next few days.”
I used this opportunity to escape my fate just a little longer.
It was a beautiful afternoon. Antarah was exactly as I imagined it. I remembered the book Mama gave me on my sixteenth birthday that described the streets, the people, the beauty of the Old World, the houses made of stone and the cars stopping to let a herd of sheep cross the highway. It was so different from my life in the States and yet so refreshing.
As we entered the city, I could smell the ocean and I felt the breeze caressing my face. We were entering a modern looking neighborhood with tall buildings, many of them close to completion. They all looked pretty uniform, with marble facades and fancy entrances. I felt Jamila had done well for herself, and walked up the stairs to the fourth floor because the elevator was still under construction.
I knocked at the door and couldn’t wait to see the expression on Jamila’s face. She had no details of my arrival to Antarah because I wanted to surprise her.
I couldn’t wait to hug her and talk to her about our lives. I also hoped she had some insight on Fouad because her husband, Nabil, was also a military man.
Our reunion was better than expected. Jamila was thrilled to see me and I was ecstatic to see that she was a few months pregnant. Although she was glowing as most expectant mothers do, I could sense that she was a little upset because of my unannounced visit. Jamila hated surprises as a child and it was apparent that time had not changed that.
“I didn’t write to tell you about the baby because I wanted to surprise you for a change,” Jamila said with tears in her eyes and a disappointed look on her face. “Why didn’t you let me know that you were coming? I would have met you at the airport and prepared all your favorite dishes. Where’s amee?”
I explained that Baba was tired because of the long journey but that he promised to come spend time with her within the next couple of days.
Jamila’s apartment was very luxurious. It had exquisite Persian rugs over marble floors and custom-made furniture with rich, velvety materials framed in highly detailed, carved wood. Her balcony had a spectacular view of the ocean.
“You have a beautiful home, mabruk!” I said.
It was already late afternoon. Nabil was still at work, so Jamila and I walked across the street to the corneesh, the boardwalk along side the ocean.
The Mediterranean sunset was breathtaking. All my troubles just seemed to vanish with the wind and swept away with the waves if only for that instant and as the sun, I was ready to fade into an uncertain abyss without knowing if I would arise the next morning.
As we spoke of my impending marriage, Jamila looked into my eyes and saw my sadness.
“Fatima, maktub. Just accept your fate. You can’t change your destiny. If you believe in Allah, you will embrace your future with Fouad and be happy.”
“Jamila, you know that I never believed in arranged marriages. I never even thought I would step foot in Antarah. My parents never brought me here, they hardly spoke about this country and they never, ever prepared me for the possibility of an arranged marriage. You knew as a child that an arranged marriage was your fate. You accepted it and even looked forward to it, not me. My dreams and hopes were in America. I wanted to get my Master’s in Social Work, help the less fortunate and use my political connections to make a difference.”
“The people of Antarah need you more than the Americans and what more political connection than the president?”
“You have a point but how can I truly be happy here without my father, my friends… I thank Allah for you because no one else can help me through this. Have you asked Nabil if he knows anything about Fouad?”
“Besides the obvious, that he is well connected and best friends with the president’s son, Nabil tells me Lieutenant Mustafa is well respected and feared. Off the record, many say he is ruthless and will do anything to get what he wants. But that could be a good quality. You need a strong man to challenge you and balance your rebellious side. You should be honored by his interest in you; he is after all one of the most sought after bachelors in the entire Middle East.”
Mediteranean Sunset Page 4
