by Hasan Namir
The gentle strumming of the guitar comforts me as I soar among the clouds, a bird with a thousand wings. I look down and see Sammy.
A knock on the door disturbs my dream.
“Ramy, wake up! We have to go to Friday prayers,” Mohammed says.
Why can’t I sleep in for a change? Why can’t I dream about Sammy?
“Ramy, are you awake?”
I get up. “Yes, yes.”
“Good. Well, let’s go. We’re already late.”
I grab a towel and clean underwear and head to the bathroom for my morning shower.
Ya rab. I look around and see the mighty words of Allah painted on the walls. It’s as if I fully understand these words for the first time. And something is different about the mosque. Has someone moved a painting? Is something missing? Among the faithful, Jaffar sits cross-legged, quietly talking to a man beside him. Like a pharaoh, I perch upon my throne-like pedestal, looking down at my people as they await judgment. I open a small notebook, put on my glasses, and recite: “Dear brothers and sisters, I’ve had a request to discuss …” I clear my throat. “… to discuss homosexuality.”
The hot water gushes from the showerhead, trickling down my body, washing it and my soul clean. I think of Sammy; I hear the beautiful notes from his guitar and visualize his magical hands upon me. But I cannot fall in love again. I must not.
I clear my throat yet again. “Homosexuality is unlawful in Islam, my brothers and sisters. It is neither accepted by the state nor by Islamic society. The Qur’an clearly states that it is unjust, it is unnatural, a transgression and a crime. It’s haram. Haram! I have some verses here.” Jaffar looks confused, but when our eyes meet, he nods with understanding.
The truth is, he made my heart skip a beat like Ali did when I met him the first time. Is it because I am weak and cannot control my heart? I don’t want to fall in love just to lose yet another. I don’t want Sammy to face the same fate as Omar Khorshid, the Egyptian celebrity who was killed in a car accident, perhaps by design. But I can imagine being with Sammy …
The men in front of me have looks of discomfort on their faces, even disgust. This is a topic to avoid at all times. But I’ve begun and I must go on. Astaghfirullah.
“We must make sure our children are aware of the teachings of Islam. And … and it is very important to discuss. Our children must be clear about this problem.” I pause to sip some water.
I feel Sammy putting his hand on my chest, feeling my heartbeat. He kisses my lips, then our tongues begin to explore each other’s.
“‘If two men among you commit indecency, punish them both. If they repent and mend their ways, let them be. God is forgiving and merciful,’ the Qur’an tells us in verse four-sixteen.”
He is pulling my hair, kissing me roughly. I am his slave; he is my master. I am his guitar; he plays me—
“Ramy, we’re late!” shouts Mohammed through the door.
“Yes, yes, give me a minute!”
I take a deep breath and look around, then set my eyes upon Jaffar. “Yes, my dear brothers and sisters, the Qur’an clearly condemns homosexuality. Here is another quote. God says: ‘You lust after men instead of women. Truly, you are a degenerate people.’”
In the car, Mohammed is sweating. For him, missing Friday prayers is like desecrating one of the five pillars. He is sure he is not a good Muslim.
“What were you doing in there?” he demands.
“I was taking a shower.”
“Even girls don’t take as long.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
Outside the mosque, Mohammed parks the car and hurries away. I follow after him. The sheikh is already halfway through his lecture. When Mohammed and I join the other men on the floor, we listen to the sheikh as he continues to speak:
“My dear brothers and sisters, I don’t think I need to stress enough how much we need to teach our children about this. Don’t be afraid to tell your son or daughter how disgusting homosexuality is.”
I see the young man who has just come in and wonder: Is he a good Muslim? Then, in the distance, Abaddon appears with a grin on her face.
“As-salamu alaykum,” I say, ending my lecture.
I don’t think God is willing to help me. I mean, if His supposed messengers are not willing to help, then no one should blame me for “transgressing.” I am who I am, and if nobody is willing to help me, why should I be different? I turn to Mohammed and tell him I want to go home.
“But we just got here.”
“Please, Mohammed.”
“Wait. I have a few questions for the sheikh.” He gets up and abandons me, leaving me alone among strangers. I don’t have a single friend here at the mosque. But I am concerned. Why does Mohammed want to talk with the sheikh?
Alhamdulillah. I am relieved that this lecture is done. I just want to go home and take a nice hot bath. As I go to collect Jaffar, a man approaches me and says hello. I return his greeting.
“I’m sorry I arrived late. But I take it that today’s topic was about homosexuality.”
“Yes, brother. It was.”
“Should we be concerned as a community?”
I pause, unsure how to respond. “I wouldn’t say so, but it’s good to be informed,” I finally reply. I look over at Jaffar, who is sitting quietly and reading the Qur’an. Suddenly Gabriel appears overhead, flies up to Jaffar, and leans over to kiss him.
“No!” I shout and run toward Jaffar, but by the time I get to him, Gabriel has vanished. I am gasping when I ask, “Are you okay, habibi?”
“I’m fine, Baba. What’s wrong?”
I sigh and smile at him.
The drive home is silent. I stare out the window as Mohammed recites Qur’anic verses, glancing over at me every few moments. I can tell he wants to say something, but I don’t wish to push him.
He finally begins to talk, then stops himself. Instead, he puts on an Oum Kalthoum CD. Mohammed is a fan of the classical Egyptian singer and listens to her every day. We have very different tastes in music. I’m more into Omar Khorshid and Amr Diab, even though Mohammed thinks these modern pop singers are “soulless.”
“You know I don’t like Oum Kalthoum,” I say.
He looks at me. “You know I don’t like homosexuals.”
My mouth goes dry. I try to stay calm.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You know what I mean.”
“Mohammed, if you have something to say, say it.”
Mohammed swerves the car violently; the tires squeal. He slams on the brakes suddenly, and I lurch forward. After catching my breath, I say, “What’s going on?”
“I need to know the truth. Are you…? God, I can’t even say the word.” Staring straight ahead, he slams his hands against the steering wheel. “Are you?”
“Am I what?” I feel the panic beginning to set in.
“Don’t act stupid, Ramy. Tell me the truth!” He turns and grabs my shirt collar. “Are you lotee?”
“No!” I say defiantly.
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I’m not lotee! I’m not lotee! Wallah, I’m not …” I can feel tears beginning to form in my eyes.
Mohammed lets go of me, then sighs. “In the name of God … I just wanted to make sure.”
He puts the car in gear and continues to drive. I’m sure he’s heard only what he wants to hear. As we drive along in silence, I think of what might have transpired instead:
I’m in the car with Mohammed, but something isn’t right. He looks at me, stops the car, and says, “Tell me the truth! Are you …?” He can’t even say the words. He knows that I know what he wants me to say. And he is afraid.
“Are you lotee?” he finally asks. And I nod. I simply nod. He says, “I knew all along. How can I look at you and not feel sick?” He spits in my face. Or it might have gone like this:
Mohammed is driving, and I feel uncomfortable as I sit beside him. He says, “I want to know the truth.” But I don’t know how
to answer him.
“What truth?” I finally ask.
“Are you lotee?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You’re lotee.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve always known.” A moment of silence follows. He smiles, leans over, and kisses my cheek.
“I’ve always known.”
Subhanallah walhamdulilah wala ilaha illallah wallahu akbar. Thank God for everything. I have just finished my nighttime prayers and am ready to go to sleep. But first I go to Jaffar’s room to kiss him goodnight. His blanket lies on the floor, and he is tossing and turning. This is unsettling—what is Jaffar going through? He has never opened up to me. Maybe I need to try harder. I don’t ask about his personal life, I just assume that he is still an innocent. But he is growing up.
I pick up the blanket and cover his shivering body. Then I sit down beside him and recite some Qur’anic verses, praying to God to protect him. Looking at him, I remember my younger self.
When I was ten years old, my father also used to read me Qur’anic verses as I lay on my bed. The words of God brought comfort to my soul. My father would kiss my forehead, and then I’d fall asleep. He made me feel happy. He made me feel good.
Allah yehafthak ya ebny al aziz. May God keep you safe. I kiss Jaffar and leave his room in silence. When I enter our bedroom, I am surprised to see that Shams is still awake. She smiles at me and I smile back.
“What’s keeping you awake, darling?” I ask quietly.
“I’m waiting for you.”
“Ah …”
She looks at me, her face bright. She isn’t wearing the hejab; her long, beautiful red hair falls past her shoulders.
“How was your day?” she asks.
“Long. But how are you? What did you do today?”
“I’m good. I spent the day with my sister. We went grocery shopping.”
“How is she?”
“She’s fine, but Salah isn’t feeling well. She took him to the hospital. He had stomach flu.”
“I pray he gets better.”
She sighs as she reaches over to stroke my hair. Then she kisses me.
“Are you all right?” she asks when I don’t respond.
“Yes. Just tired.”
“Do you need a massage?”
“Oh, that’d be lovely.”
“Lie on your stomach. I will make you feel better.”
I take my shirt off and do as she says. Shams places her hands on my back and begins to knead my muscles. Every ache, every pain begins to dissipate.
“I love you, habibi.” She sighs and kisses my back, then I am shocked when she begins to lick it. I feel tremors tickling my spine. I turn over.
“Ammar,” Shams whispers, then kisses my lips. “I haven’t felt this way in a long time.” She unbuttons her nightgown and slides out of it; she is so beautiful. She moves my hand to touch her body, wanting me to …
But no. I am not here. Instead, I am in a room where two men are locked in a naked embrace. Gabriel hovers in a corner near the ceiling. Suddenly stones of fire drop upon the lovers, and I watch in horror as the fire consumes them, reducing them to ashes. Gabriel, standing behind me now, asks, “What do you know of the people of Lot?”
“I have memorized the verses.”
“I know you have.”
I approach the bed and run my hands through the ashes, now cold.
“What does God say in the Qur’an? ‘And remember Lot, when he said to his people: Do you commit the worst sin such as none preceding you has committed in the Aalameen, mankind, and jinns? Verily, you practise your lusts on men instead of women. Nay, but you are a people transgressing beyond bounds by committing great sins.’”
The little creature grins at me. “I’m impressed that you remember the words so accurately,” he says.
“My father reminded me of these verses regularly,” I say. “May his soul rest in peace. He hated lotees.”
“Do you?”
I pause for a moment and stare down at the ashes of those who have sinned. I realize that this is God’s will; it is His decision to punish those who disobeyed His wishes. He has given us life, and all He asks in return is for us to do His bidding.
“I’m sure you believe as your father did before you,” Gabriel says.
“You make it sound like that’s bad.”
Gabriel’s wings flutter. “Ammar, I’m not saying it’s bad to follow in your father’s footsteps, but do you hate homosexuals?”
“Yes!” I spit out. “Isn’t it obvious? And no, I will not help the letter writer!”
Gabriel asks whether I know the reasons for Allah’s punishment against the people of Lot.
“I know the truth. It’s in the Qur’an.”
“The truth is in the Qur’an, but it is ambiguous.”
“No!” I say. “It’s very clear.”
Gabriel grabs my hand, taking me with him as he flies away.
“Let me go!” I demand.
“I will show you the truth.”
“No, I don’t want to go!”
“I’m sorry, Ammar. You don’t really have a choice.”
Then he lets go of me and I fall from the sky, landing on the roof of a house. I am ice-cold, but the roof melts, and I fall into the house. Slumping to the floor, I am burning in nar jahanam.
A boy with long golden hair, dressed in a plain white robe, sits on a bed. As he is about to cover himself with a blanket, a door opens and slams shut, startling me. I watch. Two men stand on either side of the boy’s bed. Speaking in Hebrew, the boy yells at them. Their faces are covered with beards and moustaches as red as blood. One of them laughs; the other says something, again in Hebrew. I don’t understand a word of it. But I don’t need to understand; their body language fills me with dread. One grabs the boy and cuffs his wrists together. The other rips the boy’s robe off as he cries out. They push the boy’s face against the wall. I shut my eyes and pray in silence.
“God punished the people of Lot because of this incident. Don’t ever forget it.” I hear Gabriel’s voice inside my head. I block out the sounds around me.
I open my eyes; the boy is lying on the floor, blood spilling from his backside. I go to him. The men are gone. Astaghfirullah.
“Are you all right?” I ask, knowing that he won’t understand me. He puts his hand on mine, pleading with me in Hebrew.
“I’ll help you. Don’t worry.” I go to the door and twist the knob, but it is locked. “Help! Help!” I yell.
After banging on the door and calling for help for several moments, I turn back to the boy. I am confused and overwhelmed.
What do I do? The boy grabs my arm, then says something incomprehensible to me before he slumps back and stops breathing. Suddenly the door opens again and the two men return. They talk loudly, their voices threatening. One grabs me by the shoulder while the other pulls my face toward his and then kisses me. Astaghfirullah! I shut my eyes and pray to God to save me. I am shivering as they pull off my clothes and push me against the wall. I can no longer feel my body. I hear whispers. The colour werdy is all around and begins to consume me.
Drowning in a sea of pink, I struggle, fighting to make it to shore. Only when I am there am I able to breathe again. I look up to see the pink on Shams’ lips as she leans over to kiss me. I gasp, push her away, and head toward the bathroom. I undress and jump into the tub, turning the hot water on to cleanse the filth from my body. By the time I finish and get dressed, I feel holy again. But when I return to our room, Shams is in bed, her back toward me. I lie on my side of the bed and turn off the light.
I count one, two, three, four, five … It’s useless. I can’t sleep. There is a knock at the door. It is Mohammed. I wonder why he is here at this hour.
“Yes, Mohammed.”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, it’s okay.” He turns on the light. I see an envelope in his hand.
“What’s this?” I ask, pointing at the envelope as I sit up.
&nbs
p; “I want to show these to you again.” He opens the envelope and hands me the same three photographs of the women he had shown me before. I look at the first one.
“Her name is Yassmine.”
“I remember.”
“She lives a few blocks from here. Her father owns a grocery store. Noor says she’s a wonderful woman.”
I look at her again and feel sorry for her. If I were to marry her, it would end in disaster.
The second photograph is of a woman with a ponytail and wide smile.
“This is Lamia. She’s graduating from medical school soon. Noor says she is very intelligent and outspoken.” I shrug my shoulders.
Mohammed shows me the last photograph. “This is Jameela,” he says, which means beautiful in Arabic. And she is very beautiful, indeed.
“What do you think?”
“She is like her name.” I think I succeed in convincing Mohammed that I am attracted to her.
“Good. I will let you think about them. Choose one, and Noor will set up a time for a meeting.”
“Okay.”
Mohammed looks at me, then leans over and kisses my cheek. “I love you, Ramy. So much. And I can’t wait to hold your first-born in my arms.”
I smile back at him, not wanting to ruin his moment of happiness. After all, he has taken good care of me all these years. I can’t hurt his feelings.
“All right, habibi. Goodnight.” After he leaves the room, I wonder if habibi really means anything. Does he really love me? Or does his love depend on whether I get married and live a normal life?
I lie down on my bed and close my eyes.
I am standing outside a house, holding a bouquet of roses. I knock, and Yassmine answers. Her thick ebony hair shines in the sunlight.
“Hello, Ramy,” she says and shakes my hand, then takes the bouquet as I escort her toward the car.
“So, you’re the daughter of Razaq?” I ask.
“Yes. You’ve been to the store before?”
I nod. “I go there a lot with my sister-in-law and brother.”
She nods. “My father is a hard-working man. After all these years, he still refuses to hire a helper. Just he and my brothers take care of the shop.”
