Rafiq is standing outside. He is wearing a dark blue suit and light blue shirt. The top button is open. No tie.
‘Assalam alaiki, ya Kauthar.’
‘Wa alaik salam, ya Rafiq.’
He is holding an open umbrella.
‘Is it raining?’ I ask, slightly surprised, and look up into the clear evening sky.
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘But we have to take the marriage vows. And this is how my father asked my mother. Under an umbrella in the middle of Baghdad.’
I laugh and take a step forward to join Rafiq under the umbrella. We don’t touch, but I can smell his aftershave and hear his breathing. I don’t know if people are passing us on the pavement.
‘Kauthar, I want to marry you, to be your husband for ever. But I agree to a temporary marriage on your terms for a month, so that we can get to know each other.’
A jewellery box appears in his free hand. With his thumb he pushes a small button. The lid jumps open. A gold ring with a small diamond. ‘I can put it on after we exchange our vows. I am not allowed to touch you before,’ he adds, almost apologetically.
I nod, and recite the words as they have been written: ‘I offer you myself in marriage for a month.’
And I hear him say, ‘Qabiltu. I have accepted.’
He tucks the umbrella under his chin and pulls the ring from the little cushion. I stretch out my left arm. Rafiq touches my hand. I feel him shaking, his touch penetrates my skin, enters my hand, my arm. Spreads. Seizes my entire body. Only his touch now exists. I watch the ring glide across my knuckle. His fingers on my hand.
‘It fits,’ he says, barely audible, relieved.
Everything happens so easily. For a moment my hand remains in his: the contact feels unbreakable. We both look down and I know he would love to bend forward and kiss me, and I would like to kiss him too, and I know it will happen. But not now. We step apart. He closes the umbrella, offers me his arm. Slowly we walk down the quiet side street. A cab is waiting at the corner. Rafiq opens the door for me. We sit next to each other without touching, without words. I don’t know this man at all. I’ve known him for ever.
‘How often have you been married?’ I ask.
‘Twice.’
‘Temporary marriages?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know, then, that this marriage won’t be temporary too?’
‘Because we stood together underneath the umbrella.’
‘And with the others you didn’t stand underneath the umbrella?’
‘No.’
‘I have never been married. But before I returned to Islam three years ago, I was with men.’
‘I know.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve met Rabia’s husband.’
‘My friend Rabia?!’ I swallow. ‘But she is dead.’ She died of cancer two years ago.
Rafiq nods. For a moment we are silent.
‘Have you known him long?’ I then ask.
‘No. I met him two weeks ago. After I realized that I might have found my wife – you. Still, I wanted to be sure and I wanted to know as much as possible about you. I’ve asked around, discreetly of course, in order to find people who might know you. And so I met Ali, Rabia’s husband. He is a lovely man. They took you into their hearts. He has only good things to say about you. And my initial hope that I had found my wife became a certainty.’
I turn my head and look out of the side window so as not to look at Rafiq, so as not to touch him. Because that more than anything else is what I want to do. But first I should ask him questions, questions that it is customary to ask. Because we are now husband and wife and we want to stay together for the rest of our lives. This decision I will take, subconsciously I have already taken it. But I will also take it consciously within the next few hours. Rafiq knows that I have a judgement to make.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I asked about you,’ I hear Rafiq say. ‘That’s our custom. And moreover, I just wanted to be sure this time. I entered the other marriages carelessly, and in both instances I realized within a couple of weeks that it wouldn’t work. That I had made a mistake. I have high expectations. My wife should be an intelligent, beautiful, practising Shiite. And I think I have now found her.’
‘How long ago were your other marriages?’
‘The first one took place when I was twenty-five and it lasted four months. The next one was two years later for six months. After that I decided to wait. And I wanted to finish my medical studies and establish myself in the profession.’
‘Do you have children from these marriages?’
‘No. But now I’d like some.’
‘How many?’
‘Kauthar.’
I turn my face towards him. He knows that I understand he is referring to the River of Abundance in Paradise, which also gives me my name. I would love to pull him close to me. But not yet. The rules have to be followed. So I look out of the window again. The green of Regent’s Park glides past, and two joggers.
‘No, honestly. How many?’
‘How many would you like? I feel that the decision about the number of children should be mainly for the woman.’
‘Two,’ I reply.
‘I am happy with two.’
‘And if it turns out to be three?’
‘Then it will be three.’
‘Do you prefer boys or girls?’ I ask.
‘That decision is with Allah. I would cherish a daughter like a princess, look after her like the apple of my eye, and help her become a wise and intelligent woman. A boy I would bring up in such a way that he can measure himself against me and hopefully overtake me one day.’
For a moment we are silent. Then I say: ‘Tell me about you. Where were you born? Where did you grow up? Tell me about your studies. Your family. You know so much about me and I know so little about you.’
And Rafiq told me. He began in the taxi and continued in the restaurant, and then added details over the next days and weeks and months. And that evening, after our meal in the restaurant – an Iraqi restaurant, where we would eat many more times, and would also eat our last meal together in London . . . But we haven’t got to that point yet. No, no, no. I want to go back to the first evening. I want to relive it one more time. And then I am ready to come to you. And I will love no one else except you. I have never loved anyone except you. All the love I have ever felt, ever experienced, was ultimately and most importantly love for you.
I loved Rafiq like a woman loves a man, a carnal love, and we became one for you, in praise of you. We merged our bodies, our souls, in praise of you.
As we sat in the restaurant, we did not touch. And in the cab on our way home we did not touch.
He opens the door of the taxi for me and while my left hand gathers up my long skirt, my right hand lowers itself on to his offered arm. And I say, ‘I’d like you to come upstairs.’ I say it only to him, barely audible, only he can hear me. He nods, pays the taxi and no further words cross our lips. He follows me up the stairs. I hear his breathing, I hear the rustling of my skirt, I hear the squeaking of the old wooden stairs underneath the thin, worn carpet. I unlock the door and ask him in, silently. I push the door shut and he is standing in the small hallway. Pale-yellow street light enters from the kitchen window. He is standing there and waiting, because that is our agreement. These are my terms. I am standing there and I see his hands by his side. I know that I have all the time in the world. He will be there and when I offer him my hand he will take it and guide it, and we will merge, become one in praise of Him. And we will give each other pleasure in praise of Him. And my body is burning, consumed by desire, desire for him and longing for Him, longing to merge, to unite, to become one, to dissolve.
My body is being consumed by flames. I can’t stop it. It is burning, and has already burnt to ashes a long time ago, and no one n
oticed how my body, my heart, my soul caught fire. All I ever wanted was to become one with you, with you alone. Because you are love. Only you.
We stand alone, a man and a woman, and we stand facing each other, and we are allowed to do whatever we want to do. God allows us because we are husband and wife. I ask him to take a seat on the sofa in the living room. I go into the bedroom and switch on the bedside lamp. I take off my coat, then the hijab, let both drop on to the chair. In front of the mirror I unbutton my blouse and let it slip over my shoulder. I lean forward and put my hand down inside the basque, pushing my breasts up. I untie my hair and repaint my lips. Then I walk out of the room and stand for a moment in the doorway of the living room and his glance rests on me. And as I walk towards him his lips move, Bismillahir rahmanir rahim. In the name of Allah, the Most Merciful, the Most Kind.
The next morning we rise together just before dawn to perform our ablutions once again, as we did during the night. Then for the first time in our lives we pray together the fajr prayer, the first prayer of the day, which has to be recited between dawn and sunrise. It is the first time that I pray with a man, my man. I am standing a few steps behind him, as decency demands, so that my sight does not distract him. I am wearing a white khimar, a cape-like veil that reaches down to the floor, covering my entire body, and only my face and hands are visible. I always wear the khimar for fajr, especially in the summer months, when the morning prayer has to be said very early, and I go back to bed afterwards. It is a practical, chaste piece of clothing and I usually wear my pyjamas underneath. But today I am naked. For a short moment, as we are standing ready for prayer, hands by our side, feet firmly planted, the prayer stones in front of us on the floor – where we will rest our foreheads during sujud, the prostrate position, with humility, in gratefulness – I hesitate, wondering if it is indecent to stand before God with nothing on underneath my khimar. But then Rafiq’s voice starts rising in the call for prayer, dispersing my doubts.
And my heart is lifted up into the air, is flooded with a feeling of happiness beyond compare, is flooded with his voice, Rafiq’s voice. And I start softly to follow him in prayer. Our voices join quietly, flowing together in the name of Allah, in the name of Muhammad, peace be upon him, in the name of Ali, the true successor of Allah’s final prophet. For a beat I hold in my heart the twelve imams: Ali, the first, and al-Mahdi, the last, who disappeared, who was born but did not die, who is still among us and has been among us for over twelve centuries, according to our calculations here on earth. But where he lives – there in the invisible, in the occult, in the unfathomable – time is calculated differently. He has lived there since a moment ago, he has lived there since eternity. And a moment and an eternity are one, a unit, a certainty, a truth. And Rafiq’s voice and my voice are one, our bodies are one, before God, in the name of God, and they bow as one, as husband and wife, before Him, the Creator to whom all praise belongs. He created us because He loves us and so that we love Him, right now and for ever. In the here and the now and the incomprehensible. And I feel the cold pressed earth of Karbala on my forehead. The incomprehensible becomes tangible. And God floods my heart. I raise my hands to my face, and with me, in front of me, Rafiq raises his hands too. A smell of musk floods the room and we are now in a different sphere. It is bathed in light, and I know we are no longer here, and yet here we are, but a here without locality. You and I, Rafiq and Kauthar, my husband and I, my love and I, with you alone I can continue, because of you, because with you I came here, I have arrived in this moment. In the distance we can already recognize Jabalqa and Jabarsa, cities built on mountains, glistening beautifully in the sunlight, like a mirage out of nowhere, in the middle of the desert of human existence, the desert of our earthly life, where space and time are nothing more than servants of longing, shadows of the eternal, infinite longing of the soul. And I hear his voice, your voice, Allahummaghfirlan-na, O Allah, forgive us and have mercy upon us and save us in this world and the hereafter, for you are mighty above all things. Allahu akbar.
II
Iman – Faith
IT IS TWO o’clock in the morning and seven of them squeeze into the back of the old blue Ford. Khalid, Hussein, Muhammad, Ali, Abdullah, Majid and Rafiq. Khalid’s older brother Hami, the coach, is sitting in the front next to the driver, a friend of Hami’s. The other boys ride in Majid’s uncle’s car, a white Mercedes, imported from Germany. They do not talk, not even when they have reached the main road. They sit bolt upright with tense, serious faces. These aren’t boys on their way to a football match. They are on their way to atonement, to seek forgiveness for their sins and the sins of their families, so that the gates of Paradise will stand wide open for them.
‘Boys, remember the saying of our Prophet, peace be upon Him: Mourn for Imam Hussein and we will take you by the hand. So don’t be ashamed of your tears. Let them flow freely.’
Hami turns, looking straight ahead again, while in the back seven heads are nodding to indicate that they have received and understood the message. Rafiq takes Khalid’s hand and squeezes it. Without Khalid he would not be here. Rafiq’s father has sold his life to the devil and the government, his mother is suffering because the family has to hide their religion, and his sister is interested in discos and the shortness of her skirts and nothing else. But three months ago, Khalid took Rafiq for the first time to the Mohsin mosque.
‘My brother now works there as a coach for the Ashura rituals.’
At first Rafiq doesn’t believe Khalid. The Ba’ath Party banned the annual Shiite mourning processions in remembrance of Imam Hussein two years ago.
Nevertheless, from now on he joins the other boys every Monday afternoon at the Mohsin mosque, while his mother believes he is at football training. He learns the lyrics of the lamentation songs by heart and learns to beat the drums. He holds the rhythm, marches in unison with the other boys while they swing and hurl the chain whips. In his imagination he sees riders, dressed in white and green, hunting through the desert on horses and camels, sees blood dripping from swords, black smoke rising from burning tents, dead bodies impaled on spears, horses without riders appearing out of a smoky haze. The Battle of Karbala. Imam Hussein is fighting alone, the sole survivor against a thousand-headed, hostile army. Rafiq is convinced he can feel in his own body the arrows that are piercing the imam. And the sword blow that eventually kills him. Imam Hussein went into this battle to die, because he knew that victory was already his, the ultimate and final victory before Allah.
And like Imam Hussein more than thirteen centuries ago, Rafiq sees himself now riding through the desert on a white horse, bent low over the animal’s back, drawn sword in hand to avenge his father, his mother, his sister, Imam Hussein, Imam Ali, and all Shiites, and to fight for the end of oppression, tyranny and evil. The boy is filled with regret at not having lived during Imam Hussein’s time, at not having been one of his soldiers. Because if he had lived then, he would be a hero now. But the days of heroes have gone. Today, every-one is scared, not wanting to attract attention, wanting to keep his job, his apartment, his car. But doesn’t Allah love the heroes most? Rafiq wants to be loved by Allah and he wants to be a hero. The forbidden Ashura processions offer him this chance. Last year his mother didn’t even allow him to be out on the street with his friends during Ashura, while his father threatened him with beatings if he even mentioned the words ‘pilgrimage’ and ‘Karbala’ in their home. That’s how scared his parents are of the government and the Ba’ath Party. His parents aren’t bad people. Their only fault is their fear. But he, Rafiq, their son, won’t be governed by fear.
‘Hey, Rafiq, wake up!’
Khalid nudges him. The car has stopped at the roadside somewhere in the open between Baghdad and Karbala. The road stretches out in front of them like a black line through barren desert. Dawn is breaking. They climb out of the car; the Mercedes has parked behind the Ford. They perform their ablutions with sand, since there is no water. T
hen they line up behind Majid’s uncle and pray. They change their clothes, taking off their vests and jeans and throwing them into the car boots. They dress in black trousers and shirts. They fasten brown belts around their waists and wind red strips of cloth around their heads. The red strips symbolize Imam Hussein’s blood. To their belts they fasten the zanjeer, the short chain whip. They line up in rows of two. Rafiq and Khalid are, of course, standing side by side. Muhammad carries the flag, a large black banner with golden letters reading: Ya Hussein. Long live Hussein. Abdullah begins to beat the drum. Hami is standing bare-chested at the head of the group. He turns and nods at Khalid.
Khalid is the lead chanter and the first plaintive cry now rises from his throat: ‘Ya ya karam Shiati. O you Shiites. O you, my people.’
And everyone echoes: ‘O Shiites.’
They start marching.
‘O you, my noble people.’
They start beating their chests with flat hands. Right hand over left hand. Right hand over left hand.
‘O Shiites. O you, my noble people!’
The sun rises and is pulled up across the sky. Rafiq’s gaze is fixed on the back of Khalid’s brother, who is already beating himself with the zanjeer. But he is still careful not to use too much force. Karbala is far away and he has to make it.
‘Ya Ali. Ya Ali! Long live Ali, the true leader!’
Kauthar Page 5
