by Ali al-Muqri
‘Abd al-Raqeeb resurrected his old motto, ‘Playing in stoppage time is like playing outside the main game of life.’ So, as he said, there was now nothing to tie him to the jihadi group. ‘Perhaps it’s like Bin Laden and his associates assumed their roles when it was time for them to play the game. And even if they did lose in the end, what matters is that they played. But those who came later, it looks like they chose to play in stoppage time. It just wasn’t their time.’
The first time I heard him ask ‘Where’s the group?’ I was puzzled, but I soon realised that he’d started referring to Valentina as ‘The Group.’ She had became his group, his creed. He still claimed to follow Imam Abu Hanifa’s school of Islamic law, which his new wife also belonged to. But it would have been more honest if he’d told us he’d become a follower of Valentina.
‘My Communist parents named me after Valentina, a Russian space pioneer of the Soviet era,’ she explained to us the day she arrived at our home. Lula looked at her with envy in her eyes. ‘Valentina the Russian was free to go all the way up into space,’ she observed, ‘but you, you can’t even go up to the roof of the house – if you tried, just once, like Nura did, you’d be hit by the busybodies’ missiles and burnt by the flames of gossip. You’d be taken out by a hidden camera.’
Valentina described herself as a nationalist mujahid, rather than a religious mujahid, but maintained she wasn’t a Communist like her family all were. Despite this, ‘Abd al-Raqeeb continued to insist that she followed the school of Abu Hanifa.
Valentina filled ‘Abd al-Raqeeb’s life with affection. So much so that he overflowed with it. Lula thought she was a fake, and never really got on with her. Valentina clearly took an interest in her appearance, but above all she was concerned with ‘Abd al-Raqeeb’s meals, clothes, comfort, and peace of mind. She even made sure he smelled nice (how could it be that he had started using scent, when he’d been such a stranger to it before?). Despite the obvious power of her beauty, Valentina never faltered in her boundless obedience to our brother. Perhaps it was this behavior that made ‘Abd al-Raqeeb so defenceless before her, telling her ‘Don’t ask, Valentina, command me. You’re going to have everything you want.’ But, as Lula saw it, her behaviour had just one motivation, a motivation that she alone had observed. In a whisper she told me that Valentina had discovered the secret of our brother’s strength, which Nura had failed to recognise.
‘Your brother didn’t go to fight against the Russians alongside the Chechen mujahideen, he went to raid Chechnya itself. He drew his sword and conquered one of Chechnya’s women – an impressive conquest – and then returned home victorious.’
No man can claim eloquence
Unless he finds its source in you.
I have praised kings and risen high in their esteem
But when I praise you I rise above the clouds.
I followed the news closely, listening for updates on the mujahideen in Afghanistan and Guantanamo Bay, hoping to find out if Abu Abdullah was still alive. But after more than a year and a half of waiting I still hadn’t heard anything, so I decided to return to university.
At some point after Father’s death we’d acquired a television and video player. We also now used our mobile phones openly. Yet, in spite of this, I felt that my life was stuck between the four walls, even when I was walking down the street or at the market. University also began to seem oppressive. But its walls were thick, walls that embodied everything walls represent. Something about this drew me to them. I tried to reclaim them, as though I were trying to reclaim myself, or draw closer to myself. But I was no longer the person I used to be, even if I hadn’t become a different person.
I have praised kings and risen high in their esteem
But when I praise you I rise above the clouds.
Lula’s depression was deepening, and despite our best efforts, it seemed we could do nothing to help her. ‘Abd al-Raqeeb’s trading business was making a good profit and he and Valentina bought a house, where they were spared the melancholic atmosphere of our home. As is the custom, when Mother died they moved back and spent forty days with us. They were clearly relieved when the time was up and they were able to return to their own home.
It was just Lula and I in the house now. I was in my third year of university. She kept saying she had no regrets, that she couldn’t have done things any other way. Still, she often spoke about Mother and Father’s marriage, her voice heavy with nostalgia.
‘They continued to live together after they got old. They reminisced about their youth and their past. But me, I have nothing worth remembering. Faces, the things I’ve done and said, pass through my memory like fragments of a dream or some terrifying nightmare. They float like bubbles and, try as I might, I just can’t catch them.’ Then she’d fall silent for a while and simply look at me.
‘Do you think I made a mistake by bringing that young man home? I’m getting old and I’m not as desirable as I used to be. Can you believe that I sewed up my pussy twice? The last time I did it so I’d look like a virgin for someone who only wanted to sleep with virgins. But even then, no one wanted me. Then I was afraid that on the Day of Judgement I’d meet my Lord as a virgin and he’d put me with the virtuous virgins. I was worried, I didn’t want to cheat God. So as soon as that young man looked at me in the street, I acknowledged him. He was obedient, willing, like it was his first time. I arranged to meet him later. He came to me wearing the abaya, just as I’d asked him. This was my plan to get what I wanted, needed . . . for the last time.’
I didn’t want to risk her getting too worked-up, so I’d just listen without commenting. She was no longer fully aware of her behaviour. She’d spend her time watching porn – or cultural films as she still called them – and listening to religious cassettes. Sometimes, she’d remember to pray, even without making her ablutions first, or while she had her period.
As she became more and more disturbed she stopped eating and would refuse all my attempts to feed her. One night, seeing how frail she was made me so anxious that I couldn’t sleep. I called ‘Abd al-Raqeeb and asked him to come over; but he and Valentina were too late. By the time they arrived, Lula’s stubbornness had won out – she’d killed herself with hunger and exhaustion.
I pray to God for the children of my religion
May He hear and grant my prayers
‘Abd al-Raqeeb decided to sell me the share of our house he’d inherited. It was a nominal sale and no money was ever actually exchanged. He saw it as his gift to me. He and Valentina tried to persuade me to move in with them, but I insisted on staying put, alone with my memories.
By the time I’d reached my final year of university I’d become fixated on what might have happened to Abu Abdullah, and I couldn’t concentrate on my studies. I needed answers so that I could find some peace of mind. One day, I was reading the student newspaper when I noticed the name of the Islamic education professor who’d lectured us in my first year, before I dropped out. He had a column where he answered readers’ questions on various points of sharia. Next to his name was his email address.
I’d heard and read about the internet, but I’d never used it. Hefsa, who I knew from class, was happy to teach me how. We found an internet café and I sat beside her in front of one of the computers. ‘It’s simple . . .’ she began.
The very next day I had an internet connection installed and bought an ‘Islamic’ computer, as it was described on the box. When you switched it on you weren’t greeted with the usual start-up tone, instead you were treated to the bismillah, the standard Muslim invocation – ‘In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful . . .’ – and a verse from the Quran: ‘Glory to Him Who has subjected this to our use . . .’ In fact, all the audio notifications took the form of a Quranic verse.
‘Dear Sheikh Abu Surur,
Peace be upon you and God’s mercy and blessings, and may He reward you for the fatwas you have issued, illuminating for us the path of Islam.
Five years ag
o I had the honour of being one of your students. I was at that time in the first year of my studies, before I interrupted them. I am writing to ask you to answer my query and direct me to a solution that will please God, may He be glorified and exalted. Since my query is of a personal nature I would ask you to send me your telephone number so that I can contact you and explain. Peace be upon you and God’s mercy and blessings.’
This was the first email I’d ever sent.
He got back to me, and I called him.
‘What is the opinion of the merciful law, dear Sheikh, if a man disappears during war and his wife doesn’t hear from him for more than four years? Does she remain under his custody as his wife, even though she doesn’t know whether he’s dead or alive?’
‘No, no, no.’ I didn’t know what he meant.
‘What do you mean, our Sheikh?’
‘Listen, it depends on the circumstances. Come to the Islamic Guidance Centre tomorrow, after the afternoon prayer, and explain the problem to me in more detail. I’ll tell my secretary to make sure I see you first.’
I went to the centre. It must have been his own private centre since I was alone in front of him, trying to avoid his scrutinising gaze.
‘No, no. It is not permitted that you remain in his custody. Islam is ease, not hardship,’ he said.
He issued his fatwa before I’d even finished explaining the problem. Had his eyes uncovered the details of the problem as they stared at my body, wrapped in the abaya and veil? ‘Jihad is a duty, but . . .’ He was silent for a moment before continuing, as though he’d wanted to give a smile as a preface to what he was about to say, ‘How can they go off to jihad, when there are things right here that need jihad? Didn’t the poet say:
“They say, go out in jihad, Jameel, do battle
But what jihad could I want beside women?”‘
I remembered what Lula had once said about jihad, something which had sounded like a line of poetry. I also remembered the same professor’s lecture. In the first year his words had come as a surprise to us, but what he said now somehow seemed less surprising.
Not only did he help me by issuing a fatwa, but he also promised to accompany me to see a lawyer. He even insisted that he would be by my side when, four months after first seeing the lawyer, my case was heard at the Personal Status Court. After some questioning and investigation, the judge ruled that I was officially divorced from my husband, whose fate remained unknown.
That day I went home feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders, a dead weight, or a living weight – no one knew. It was the worst burden I’d ever carried, for there had been no possibility of relief.
After this the sheikh took the initiative and called to ask me to meet him at the centre the following morning. I didn’t think to question the motive behind his invitation, instead my thoughts were full of the poetry he’d recited during our first meeting.
During my early years at school I was in love with poetry. I memorised many poems, the ones we studied at school and the collections ‘Abd al-Raqeeb used to give me. If I’ve used any poetic words or turns of phrase in this confession of mine, it’s as a result of my early passion for reading. I used to pen my poetic musings in literature class, but the teacher kept telling me off for being overly fanciful, for having too much imagination. She censored the first story I wrote without even telling me why.
I didn’t sleep well after he called me that evening. All my senses burned with the thought ofjihad – not the jihad I’d known and lived, but the kind of jihad I’d known only in films and the Prophet’s sayings. I remembered what Lula had said about ‘Abd al-Raqeeb’s jihad and his conquest of Valentina.
‘Who will make jihad for my cause and conquer me, and when?’ I asked Lula, crying as I remembered her.
When I got to the centre the secretary wasn’t at his desk so I went straight to the sheikh’s office and knocked on the door. He invited me in.
‘We usually open in the evenings but I wanted us to meet in a more relaxed, less formal atmosphere,’ he explained as he fished out a carton of mango juice from a draw inside his desk and offered it to me. ‘Drink in good health. There’s nothing else in the office. Please take it.’
I was confused. How could I drink in front of him without taking my veil off? Wouldn’t this go against sharia, at least according to what we’d learned at university, where he’d been one of our professors?
‘Thank you, but I don’t want to drink mango just now.’ I’d wanted to tell him indirectly that I could drink mango juice, but there was a legal prohibitive that meant I couldn’t drink it under these particular circumstances.
‘Only an ingrate refuses an invitation to drink,’ he said, waiting for me to comply. So I moved the mango carton up behind my veil towards my mouth, assuming this is how he expected me to drink it. But before I could take a sip he said, ‘Remove your veil. Don’t be scared. I am your teacher and sheikh, after all, and are you not a divorcee now? Perhaps . . . Perhaps . . .’ He coughed out a laugh, and continued, ‘I might find you pleasing, and then perhaps marry you in accordance with God’s law and the example of His Prophet.’
I felt as though time, all time – everything I’d lived through and all that lay ahead of me – was spinning through my head and all around it, like a sudden storm. I could never have anticipated this; I, who’d married Abu Abdullah before he’d even opened his eyes to see my face. Confused and embarrassed, I felt myself responding to his request. But there was something else, something I felt deep within me. It pushed me past my embarrassment, to reveal more than he’d asked for: I removed both my headscarf and my veil, and I shook my hair loose.
‘God bless! God bless!’ he exclaimed in astonishment as he rose from his desk. He came over and sat in front of me, leaning into my face, which seemed to have excited him: ‘Listen, I’ll give you whatever dowry you want. You’re divorced, a free woman. We just have to agree to get married, you don’t need permission from your legal male guardian.’
‘So fast! Please be a little patient. I need to think it over first,’ I said, finding it all too much too soon.
Back home, I thought it over and over but couldn’t reach a decision, so I prayed the decision-making prayer, and found myself agreeing.
‘There’s no time. Just say yes. One word from you and you’ll become my wife in the eyes of sharia,’ he said when I went to see him the next day.
I gave him what he wanted and from that moment on I became obedient to him, as a hurma, naturally.
We went to complete the formalities with a religious judge the sheikh knew, in the presence of witnesses he’d called up who met us there. Afterwards he took me to an apartment building which he said he owned. It had six floors. At the door to one of the flats he pulled out a key and gave it to me: ‘Go on, open it. It’s yours.’ Everything looked as though it had been carefully prepared, not least the bedroom. The bed itself was alluring, seeming to promise a night of unbridled frolics.
He took a carton from a little fridge in the corner beside the bed. By the time I’d finished in the bathroom he was licking the last of the carton’s contents from a spoon. I was pretty sure it was a mixture of honey and strengthening herbs like Abu Abdullah used to take.
Contrary to my expectations, my new husband jumped on top of me. He pulled off his clothes and helped me out of what little I was still wearing. Wasting no time, he began to kiss me on the lips and suck my tongue.
He aroused me like I’d never been aroused before. He drove me wild with his kisses on my neck, breasts and between my thighs. I writhed against his mouth, gasping in pleasure. I was elated. What I was experiencing was something I’d never known or even come close to before. I said to myself, ‘God is compensating me.’
As my excitement became almost unbearable, I found myself trying to guide him in, opening myself up for him to enter me.
He responded by pressing his thing into me. He continued to aim his blows at the door, but they were more like sla
ps of flaccid meat, like the offal you can buy from the butchers, all slack intestines that had never known an erection.
I felt such intense frustration it was more like anger and disgust. I noticed the white of his thick beard showing despite the patches of henna he’d tried to cover it up with. I hadn’t noticed the white before or any of the other signs of ageing he had concealed with his fake smile, like more henna. I wanted to smash his head with something hard and solid, but I could only find the carton he had tried to treat his impotency with. Before I could do anything, he noticed my anger and tried to placate me, saying:
‘I thought I’d overcome the weakness. I wanted to get married, to try again. But now it’s your right to ask for a divorce. You are free. You are free. You are free. I’ll do anything you ask, my daughter.’
What could I have possibly wanted from him other than what I’d thought was finally within my grasp? It looked like he was trying to force a smile to accompany the words that were coming out of his mouth, but his impotency now exposed, this was no longer possible. He could only twist his mouth into a frown.
By saying ‘you are free’ three times he had effectively divorced me. And by calling me his ‘daughter’ this meant I was now like a daughter to him. Mother used to say a woman’s freedom was subject to her male guardian – father, brother or husband. If a man tells his wife she is free three times then according to tradition this means she’s divorced and no longer his wife.
I’d wanted to say these words to him, to divorce him myself, but he had pre-empted me.
In times of trouble and adversity
You are the Muslims’ sole refuge.
What happened between the sheikh and I was no different to how a piece of chewing gum is treated. In one hour, or less than that, I’d become a stick of chewing gum. He’d squashed me between his teeth, chewed me for a few minutes to taste my sweetness on his tongue, and then spat me out.
