by Ali al-Muqri
Her body, including her eyes, were enveloped in a long veil and a black abaya, so when she’d opened the door I hadn’t been able to make out a thing.
It was only after she had closed the door and moved her veil aside that I saw she was just a girl, who couldn’t have been more than eleven years old. I showed her my face, in turn, and said to her, ‘Call your mother for me and tell her that Abu Abdullah’s wife is here.’
‘Umm al-Mujahid, you mean. I’ll go and speak to her.’ She came back and asked me to wait while Umm al-Mujahid finished her meeting with the harem.
Over half an hour later there was a knock at the door at the far end of the room. The girl asked me to cover my face, then two women emerged. Neither of them acknowledged me in any way as they left – not even so much as a ‘salam.’
I was struck by the heavy scent of perfume emanating from the far corner of the room where Umm al-Mujahid – as I’d now began to think of her – was sitting.
I thought it odd that the sheikha’s face was still veiled, so I removed mine to encourage her to do the same.
‘Do you reveal your face so easily? How, in the name of God, will you make jihad with us? We’re living in an ignorant, infidel society. We must fight it with weapons and strength. Our strength is in abiding by the true teachings of our sacred law.’
I was embarrassed and didn’t know how to explain myself.
‘I felt myself drawn to you right away. I felt I could trust you, like you were my mother, so I took off my veil.’ She raised a finger in warning as though to pin down the last words she’d heard. Then she said: ‘Nowadays money, children, father, mother, sister, brother have no value, so don’t trust anyone in your family or your close friends – not even your mother. Put your trust, all of it, in God, may He be exalted.’
Hearing her speak like this, I was sure I’d never be able to keep up with her in a debate. I decided to keep quiet, to just listen and do what I was told. Abu Abdullah hadn’t warned me of this. At school, back when I was still mastering the alphabet, I learnt that there are three kinds of obedience: obedience to God, obedience to His Prophet and obedience to your parents. After I married these became just two: obedience to God and obedience to your husband. But in truth, there is only one, since to obey your husband is to obey God. I pulled my veil back over my face and tried to tried to find the right words to convey my obedience: ‘Thank you, may God grant you good health. I . . . I seek only God’s approval. I’ve come to you for guidance, to help me fight in defence of God’s religion.’
My words seemed to please her. She quizzed me on every aspect of my life: family, friends, relationships, childhood, studies, hobbies, desires. She even asked me if I’d ever taken a liking to one of my cousins or the young men in the neighbourhood and wanted to marry any of them.
Side A of the song
Ask my heart . . .
Ask my heart when it repents
Perhaps it will hold beauty to blame.
I began to visit Umm al-Mujahid regularly. I never once saw her face, although she’d always make sure she looked at mine to check it was really me under the veil and abaya. ‘You are to go to the library every day between 8 and 10 am. You will spend this time in the newspaper archive, reading the papers that print articles offensive to the faith. Make a note of the authors’ names and the subjects of their articles. If you believe a writer has violated sharia, especially if he’s written about what they call ‘women’s freedom,’ write his name down separately and make a summary of the article and the offending opinions.’ This was my first assignment from Sheikha Umm al-Mujahid.
One day I was so absorbed in what I was reading that I ended up staying in the library an hour longer than I was supposed to. When I told Umm al-Mujahid, she was furious. It was only then that I learnt why she’d been so specific about the hours I should spend there: ‘After ten there are a lot more library staff – since they usually arrive late – which means there are more people curious about your reading the papers and . . . and, do not forget, above all else, your main role as a hurma is to stay at home. You need to be home in time to make your husband’s lunch.’
Ask a sensible man for sensible answers
But who could keep his wits in the face of such beauty?
I was reluctant to show Umm al-Mujahid my initial findings. It didn’t seem reasonable to tell her or write in my report that most of the writers whose articles I’d read violated sharia in some way or another. This would mean the Prophet was wrong when he said ‘Faith and Wisdom are Yemeni.’
I noticed that a bearded man with an extremely religious look about him would arrive at the library around the same time as me. He’d read through the same volumes I’d already read or the ones I’d earmarked to read later. I was scared he was watching me, or that he’d been sent to vet my work. I wasn’t sure how to write my report. Could I keep back some of the names and articles of the writers who I believed were well intentioned and hadn’t meant to violate sharia? But what if the bearded man’s assignment was the same as mine, and if in the end someone was going to compare what we’d written?
I needed to find some excuse to talk to him, to get to know him a little. But just the thought of it made me feel worse. How should I behave with this person? What if he thought that whatever I might say to him was irreligious, more so than the stuff we’d both been reading? I mulled it over for a while, but there was no escaping it, I had to speak to him. The pretext I came up with was terrible but effective. He sat at a table jotting down his observations on lined paper, stacks of bound newspaper volumes piled high around him. I just had to take that first step, follow it with a few more, and then I’d be standing directly in front of him.
‘Peace be upon you and God’s mercy and blessings, brother in the eyes of God.’
He looked up at me and then quickly lowered his eyes.
‘Peace be upon you and God’s mercy and blessings,’ he replied in a low, cracked voice that betrayed his embarrassment.
‘God preserve you brother. I just wanted to ask you if you have a sister named Fatima? She entrusted me with something important about a year ago, at university, but I haven’t seen her since. I’ve heard she died and also that she married and moved away. God forgive me, but to be honest when I saw your face I noticed you look at lot like her. I’m a God-fearing Muslim woman and avoid looking at men’s faces, but I felt that God the High and Almighty had caused my gaze to fall on you. I don’t believe God would deceive a faithful servant trying to fulfil an old promise.’
I’d spent some time practicing these words in my head until I knew them off by heart. I hadn’t really been predicting how he might respond, but I don’t think I could have ever anticipated anything like the reply he gave: ‘Yes, Fatima is my sister. God have mercy on her soul. She died not long after starting university.’
‘Oh, really? No, that can’t be,’ I said, embarrassed, not because his sister had actually died, but because I was surprised he’d even had a sister called Fatima in the first place. Not only that, she had even attended the same university as me, at the same time, and died before she could finish her first year, or suddenly disappeared, just as my story had it.
‘I’m shocked. I can’t believe it. God have mercy on her soul. I can’t talk about this right now but, God willing, maybe we can talk again some other time. God preserve you, good bye.’
He didn’t reply, just mumbled something I couldn’t make out. Perhaps he was choking back the tears after I’d reminded him of his dead sister.
If I were to ask my heart
Tears would answer in its place.
I never had a friend called Fatima who died or suddenly disappeared during my first year at university. I began to wonder if I had a bad memory, but no one just forgets like that. Perhaps she was only at university for a few days before she died. After a lot of thought, I said to Fatima’s brother: ‘The dearly departed asked me to deliver something very important to someone. That person then entrusted me with something to d
eliver to Fatima. True, it’s very precious and valuable, but it’s not an actual thing. It’s more a message she was supposed to hear from me, but now she’s gone I can’t speak of it to anyone else, God have mercy on her soul. I will take the secret of what this person said to the grave.’
He nodded his head in understanding and I felt myself relax – although this only lasted a few moments, before he asked, ‘Why are you looking at the papers? Are you a student or a researcher?’ A few seconds went by, as I watched him pick up another volume and leaf through it, until I said, ‘I’m a student. But I read the papers to benefit from them, not for research. And you, are you a researcher?’
‘The papers are no good. They’re full of falsehood and slander. I’m a master’s student at the college of Islamic law in Sana’a University. My supervisor asked me to do some research. My first task is to look at the cultural leanings of writers and journalists and how far they conform with or go against sharia.’
Reassured, I slowly began to sum up my report, passing over some violations of sharia where this seemed unintentional.
In my chest there is only flesh and blood
Feeble now that youth has gone.
Once, when I came to see the sheikha, I was surprised to find six other women there. They sat around the room on cushions, their hair and faces bare, dressed in short and flimsy clothes that barely covered their thighs and cleavages. Two of them were dressed differently to the others – one wore a skirt that reached to just below the knees, and the other a long sheer nightie that covered her shoulders and reached down to her ankles. After I’d greeted them, the sheikha asked me to take off my abaya, veil and headscarf, and hang them next to those of the other women. I was very embarrassed, since the clothes I was wearing underneath weren’t exactly anything to write home about, and they weren’t that clean either. I had on the same blouse I’d worn that morning when I cooked breakfast, and I’d worn the same trousers for three days in a row.
But why such a wanton display, when the sheikha had got so furious with me for simply taking my veil off, that time? And why didn’t she do as the others did, or at least remove her veil?
‘That’s enough for today. God willing, we’ll continue the lesson tomorrow,’ said the sheikha, gesturing for them to leave without waiting for me to sit down – a relief, since I was afraid of what she might ask from me with them still in the room.
After they’d left, I handed her my report. I’d spent five days at home preparing it. It wasn’t all that long, but my reticence had slowed me down. While her eyes were glued to the report, I took a good look at the objects scattered around her and beside an open metal trunk. It was about a metre and a half in length and three quarters of a metre wide. The objects had most likely come out of the trunk. There was an assortment of small stubby perfume bottles, various make-up accessories, and pointed tubes that I couldn’t identify. I also noticed a white electric lamp, long and thin. A thought flashed into my mind as though the lamp had zapped me with an electrical charge: Were these objects supposed to resemble a man’s thing? What did this have to do with these women and their lesson from the sheikha? ‘Oh! I can’t stop thinking about it because I’m not getting any,’ I told myself as the little girl entered the room. She put the things back in the trunk, closed it and dragged it through a door into another room I hadn’t noticed before. The door had been skilfully decorated over, so that its edges blended perfectly into the wall and it became invisible.
The sheikha berated the girl for not putting the trunk away quickly enough, then turned her attention to me.
‘What’s this! Just five writers? Only five writers who have violated sharia? Did you actually read anything? Did you bother to look properly, or is it just that you don’t know anything about sharia in the first place?’
‘I looked carefully, Miss— I mean, Sheikha. That’s all there was. After all, we are in the country of faith and wisdom as the Prophet described it – peace be upon him.’
I could tell from the way she was still shaking her head that she was fuming. ‘You’re ignorant. The Prophet, peace be upon him, was talking about the Yemenis of old, the faithful, not the infidels of these times, the end of time. Haven’t you heard what the Prophet said about the end of time? He said that for those who hold onto their faith it will be like holding hot coals.’
‘Yes, yes. I know it off by heart.’
She didn’t give me the chance to explain myself further. Pulling a bunch of papers out from beneath the rug she was sitting on, she said, ‘Here, look at this report on the infidel writers. Look how detailed it is.’
She didn’t actually hand me the report but I could make out some of the words on the front page. At the top of the page, scrawled in spidery handwriting, was ‘Mujahideen Affairs Division: For information and action.’ Below this was a printed letter, which I noticed was addressed to an official at the Political Security Bureau, though I couldn’t make out the name. It began: ‘This study is per your request. We commissioned brother Abu Misaab to undertake it.’ I skimmed to the bottom of the letter and saw it was signed by a Dr Abu Jihad, described as a professor at Sana’a University.
Could it be that Abu Misaab was the masters student I’d met at the library? This was the name he’d given, but he hadn’t told me the name of his professor. Was Abu Jihad a codename, or a secret organisational name under which he worked for military intelligence?
The sheikha seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
‘Look! Look at the detail! The name of every writer and journalist who has violated the sharia is recorded here, with a summary and excerpts of what they’ve written. Look! Look at this!’ she said. She turned back the first page and I was astonished by what I saw. It was the same handwriting that, when I’d first seen it, had seemed totally unique. It was Abu Misaab’s writing, which resembled the ancient style of calligraphy they used to write the Quran in.
Was the professor working alone for military intelligence? If so, had he given Abu Misaab this assignment without telling him it was part of an intelligence operation? Or was Abu Misaab working for military intelligence too? The professor mentions in the letter that he assigned it to Abu Misaab, so did this mean they were familiar with him? But if they were, did this necessarily mean he was working with them? If either or both of them were working for military intelligence, then how had the report reached the sheikha? Was one of them working for military intelligence and the jihadi group? Or was it that military intelligence itself was working for both sides, copying its reports for the jihadi group to provoke them against the writers they considered infidels?
‘What’s to be done now? What should I do with you? What do you think the solution is?’ said the sheikha.
The sheikha seemed very agitated. She kept moving her hands about, making it impossible for me to read what was written on the page.
‘The decision is in God’s hands. My work is whatever God guides you to,’ I said to her, beginning to feel that this might well be the last time I saw her.
My heart weeps and I say: It’s over
In my chest it trembles and I say: Repent!
A week went by during which I didn’t once visit the sheikha. Every morning, Abu Abdullah got up early and went to the mosque to pray the dawn prayer, though he wouldn’t return until after the evening prayer. I asked him over and over again why by the time he came home he was always so exhausted and covered in dirt. Eventually he answered ‘We’re preparing for jihad in the cause of God.’ Then he added ‘The hurma of the sheikh, the deputy chief, requests that you go to see her tomorrow.’
Even if hearts were made of iron
Still none could bear what mine has suffered.
Umm al-Mujahid told me that this time my assignment would be an easy one. All I had to do was visit the homes of some of the families who lived in my neighbourhood. I was to attend their celebrations, births and funerals and then describe my observations in a detailed report.
‘If you can even get into the
bedrooms, then do. Write down everything you see – perfume brands, make-up, nightclothes . . . What do they watch on television? What videos do they own? What do they read? What are the names of the schools their children go to? What kind of clothes do they wear? What do they eat? What do they drink? How do they greet one another: peace be upon you and God’s blessings and mercy, or just peace be upon you, or do they say Good evening, and Good morning?’ She gave me a small video camera with which I was to record every detail.
At first, some things seemed unimportant. For example, if a person said ‘Good morning’ then I’d know he didn’t adhere to the formal Islamic greeting, ‘Peace be upon you and God’s blessings and mercy.’ And since he didn’t adhere to the Islamic greeting, it was safe to assume he didn’t adhere to all the principles of sharia. But after a while, Umm al-Mujahid revealed how even the seemingly insignificant things mattered.
‘Simple facts aren’t enough. A God-fearing sister might use a deodorant bottle shaped like a penis to masturbate because she is scared she will not be able to control her desire and commit the sin of adultery. Another hurma might use a deodorant bottle to masturbate because her husband no longer desires her, which means she might cheat on him if she isn’t committed to sharia. We learn about the nature of the relationship between the hurma and her husband and how we might influence them, to guide them to Islam, or at least one of them or their children. We encourage them to combat manifestations of disbelief in the home.’
I found it difficult. Actually, I was really uncomfortable trying to get close to these families without any real pretext. But despite my unease, I got on with it. I was convinced that it was a duty in my jihad, my struggle in God’s cause – the cause of implementing the righteous sharia.
