by Hasan Namir
When we arrive at Jameela’s house, Noor gets out first. Mohammed turns to me and says, “Look, Ramy, you know what to do. Be yourself, but act respectfully.”
How can I be myself and show respect when I don’t feel it? But I will try.
An old man answers the door. He must be Jameela’s father, Ghassan. Mohammed and the old man shake hands and kiss each other four times on the cheeks. Traditions are traditions in the Middle East. Mohammed turns and introduces us. It is my turn to shake his hand and kiss his cheeks.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Amo,” I say. Then Jameela’s mother comes and shares four kisses with Noor before leading us inside to the living room, which is beautifully decorated, with leather couches and abstract paintings on the walls. I am particularly drawn to one, composed of dark forms in shades of grey and black.
“Jameela painted it,” her mother, Najwa, says, noticing my interest.
“It’s beautiful,” I reply.
I sit beside Noor while Mohammed and Ghassan chat about politics and the chaotic situation here. When Jameela’s mother goes to the kitchen, Noor, like a mother herself, turns to me and lightly touches my cheek.
“This is good, Ramy,” she says, obviously hopeful that the evening will end well.
Finally, Jameela herself enters the room with Najwa, carrying a tray with cups of juice. But Jameela doesn’t look like what I had imagined. She is wearing a long-sleeved blouse and a long skirt, and her head is covered with a pink hejab. Najwa explains that Jameela has recently decided to wear it.
“Congratulations,” Noor says with a smile. In Muslim society, it is something to be proud of. Before the war, few women wore them, but since then, it has become much more common, especially with young women pressured to do so by their parents. I wonder if Jameela’s hejab is a genuine representation of her beliefs or something else. If I am to marry her, I need to get to know her better. She sits down on the couch next to me.
“My mother says you like my paintings.”
“They’re wonderful. How long have you been painting?”
“Since I was six.”
“I’m amazed at how … dark they are.”
“How do they make you feel?” she asks.
“They make me feel … lonely, actually.”
“Me too. I mean, that’s how I felt when I painted them.”
“It’s interesting what loneliness can do to a person,” I say. She smiles at me. I think she is interested, but all I feel is panic.
Dinner seems to go well; I am polite and courteous and say all the right things to Jameela, Amo Ghassan, and Khala Najwa. Mohammed and Noor seem happy. On the drive home, they talk about what a wonderful girl Jameela is, but I just nod. Yes, Jameela is beautiful. Yes, she’s nice, yes, she’s talented. Yes, she has wonderful parents. Yes, yes, yes.
When Mohammed and Noor go to bed, I lie on my bed listening to the ticking of the clock. Unable to sleep, I go to the bathroom and take off my clothes. I stare at myself naked in the mirror. There is hair all over my body. I turn around and look over my shoulder; there is even more on my back. I have to get rid of it.
I run the electric razor roughly over my body. It cuts into my skin—the pain brings tears to my eyes, and spots of red begin to appear on my back. The hairs fall to the floor at my feet. The razor is so loud—what if Mohammed or Noor knock on the door? What would I tell them? I’m pretty sure Mohammed would see it as a sissy thing to do and beat the shit out of me. He’d tell me how body hair is a sign of manliness.
But I continue to buzz away until there is not a single hair left. My skin is red and there are nicks and cuts, but it is worth it. If I ever end up in bed with Sammy … I imagine him kissing my back, smooth and hairless.
Ya rab ehdena ya rab. God, please guide us to the right path. I lie on the bed as Shams sits at her makeup table, facing the mirror. I watch as she slowly applies pink lipstick. Shams then stands up and unzips her dress, slowly revealing her body. I am hypnotized … by the colour pink.
I wake up in the middle of the night from a bad dream and go to the kitchen for some water. Gabriel is waiting for me there.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I came to see how you’re doing.”
“I was doing fine until you came.”
“Ammar, you have to admit, I’m not such a bad angel after all.”
“What do you want from me, Gabriel?”
“I know what woke you up.”
“Good, you know. Now, leave me alone.”
“It’s your father, isn’t it?”
“Can we not talk about him, please?”
“But did you really want to become a sheikh?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I don’t think so. You only became a sheikh because your father was one.”
“Maybe. But I’m happy with my life, and I’m sure my son will be too.”
“So you’re a tyrant just like your father?”
“My father was never a tyrant. He wanted the best for me.”
Suddenly, Gabriel transforms into my very own father, smiling through his bushy white beard. He approaches me and gathers me in his arms. “You have to face the truth,” he says. “You have to pray to God always.”
“What are you doing here, father?”
“The truth, ebny, is the most beautiful thing in life.”
“What truth are you talking about?”
He kisses my forehead. “You’re a good son, ebny. I wronged you. I hurt you. I just want to say … I’m sorry.”
Before I can respond, my father returns to the form of Gabriel. I resist the urge to cry.
“Will you forgive him?” Gabriel asks. I don’t reply. I stand up and am about to leave the kitchen when Gabriel begs me to stay.
“What do you want from me?” I demand.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I turn around to face him. “Look, Gabriel, please leave me in peace. I don’t want you to come here again.”
“Do you forgive your father?” he asks, ignoring my plea.
“He didn’t do anything to me for which I have to forgive him.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I shake my head. This time I can’t stop the tears from flowing. “Please leave me alone,” I beg.
Gabriel comes nearer. “God will never forgive him for what he did. He was supposed to be a good father, yet he beat you constantly,” he says.
“But he was a good father. Sometimes, I deserved to be beaten.”
“He was cruel to you.”
“He’s my father.”
Suddenly, Jaffar enters the room.
“Jaffar, what are you doing up?” I see that he’s been crying.
“Baba, I can’t sleep.”
“What’s wrong, ebny?” He comes toward me and puts his head on my shoulder, sobbing.
“What is it? What happened?” I hate seeing him like this.
“I had a bad dream, Baba.”
I hold him in a tight embrace. My beautiful son. If only he knew how much I loved him. “We all have nightmares. But it’s only a dream.” I wipe the tears from his cheeks and hug him again. “What did you dream about?” I ask.
He pauses, then says, “You were in it, Baba. You were beating me.”
“Beating you? Jaffar, I would never do that.”
“You said, ‘If you don’t do what I say, I will kill you.’”
“Jaffar, I would never say something like that to you. Never!”
“You … you …” He begins to sob again.
I hold Jaffar in my arms and reassure him that everything will be all right, that I will always protect him from harm. I turn to see the sun’s morning rays coming through the window and pray for God to protect us.
Through the windshield, I stare at the beautiful Babylonian sun as we drive to school. I look at my brother; his attention is focused on the road. Studying his face, I try to understand what is going on in his mind. He is usually talkative, but
this morning he seems troubled.
“Noor found something that belongs to you,” he finally says.
“What?”
“Your razor. Why do you need that?”
“Lots of men have them.”
“And you left hair all over the sink and floor. Noor wasn’t happy about that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’d better apologize to her.”
“I’ll make sure to clean it up better next time.”
“You know men don’t do that. They don’t shave or wax. Only women.”
I sigh. What’s the point? Mohammed has his own ideas and refuses to change them, no matter what. So I just don’t bother; I keep silent.
After class, I want to find Sammy. I discover him practising in the band room, plucking away on his guitar. But when I enter, he doesn’t even look up.
“Hi, Sammy,” I say.
He doesn’t reply.
“Sammy?” I try again.
Finally, he turns to me. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Are you okay?”
He takes a deep breath and sighs. “I had an argument with my family. They’re pressuring me to get married.”
“But you said you don’t want to.”
“I know, but they don’t care.”
“I understand. I’m in the same situation as you,” I say in sympathy.
“Let’s get out of here. I feel like going for a walk.” He gets up and carefully puts his guitar in its case.
“Sure.”
We head toward a nearby park. On the way, he does something that surprises me: he takes a cigarette pack and lighter from his pocket and lights up.
“I didn’t know you smoke.”
“I just started,” he answers tersely.
“Why did you start?”
“Why does anyone start smoking? Stress, I guess.”
“You mean like getting married? Why do you have to do what your family tells you?”
“Because I love them, and I don’t want to hurt them.”
Sammy struggles with the same things I do. “We all love our parents and family,” I say. “But if they really love us, then all they should care about is our happiness and not theirs.” Inside, I wince at myself for saying this; why don’t I listen to my own advice?
“You’re right, but what can we do?” Sammy says. “We can’t change that, no matter how much we want to.”
“Yes, I know. But I don’t think you understand what I mean,” I say, feeling bold.
He throws the cigarette butt away. “I know what you mean, Ramy. It’s a culture thing, our tradition. And anyway, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a union between two people who want to have children.”
“What I mean is, I don’t want to get married either. Ever.”
Did I just say that? Now Sammy will know for sure I’m gay. He stops in his tracks and looks at me. “Why not?”
What should I tell him now? My thoughts race as he stares at me. Then he smiles and says, “That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s just that … I don’t like commitment.” What a lame response, I think.
“That’s understandable, especially since you’re still young.”
“The truth is, Sammy …” My voice trails off.
“What?” Sammy looks at me, eyebrows raised.
I lean over and kiss him. Oh my god, I have lost my mind. His eyes are wide open when I pull away.
“What was that?” Sammy says, his hands up. I’ve made a terrible mistake.
“Sorry. I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s …”
“Look, I’m so sorry. It’s just—”
All of a sudden, Sammy punches me in the face. “Are you gay?” he yells.
I stagger about with my hand on my cheek. “No, I’m …” I start to panic.
He punches me again, this time in the nose, which begins to bleed. Then he pushes me to the ground and kicks me in the stomach. I do nothing to protect myself, nothing to defend myself. He continues to kick me, calling me lotee all the while.
Finally, I open my eyes; blood pours from my nose, and it feels like a kidney is punctured. But now there is silence. Sammy is gone. A man approaches me as I lay on the ground and asks, “Are you all right, brother?” I can’t speak. I am afraid to move.
“You’re hurt,” he says. “Look, I live walking distance from here. Why don’t you come with me so I can take care of you?”
I look carefully at the man and realize that this is the sheikh. He is dressed in a dishdasha and has a full beard and moustache. I reach out my hand, and he helps me get up. He continues to hold my hand as he guides me toward his house. I don’t speak as I limp along beside him; I don’t want him to know who I am.
His wife opens the door as we approach and gives us a confused look. She pulls back when she sees the blood on my face. The sheikh tells her to get some bandages and hot water. I lie back on the couch, and he uses napkins to wipe the blood from my nose and mouth. His wife comes back, and the sheikh gently cleans, then bandages, my wounds. His hands are warm, soothing. I sit up.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I’m better. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No, it’s my pleasure. Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. “Are you … Sheikh Ammar?”
“Yes, brother, I am. Do you come to the mosque?”
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t recall meeting you before.”
I stand up. “I’ve troubled you enough,” I say. “I should get going.”
“No, no, you have to stay for dinner, at least.”
“Thanks, but my brother must be worried about me by now.”
“I understand, but you haven’t told me your name,” the sheikh says with a smile.
“It’s Hassan,” I lie.
“Nice meeting you, Hassan. Although I wish it had been under different circumstances.” Sheikh Ammar reaches for my hand and we shake.
“Thanks for everything!” I say, and mean it.
The walk home feels shorter than it is because I am immersed in confusing thoughts. I am crushed by Sammy’s outburst and embarrassed by the kindness shown to me by the sheikh, who may have acted differently if he had known my true identity. Mohammed greets me with a barrage of questions when he sees I’ve been beaten. I tell him I was with a friend. “What friend? What happened, Ramy?” His voice is grave.
I can’t look at him. “I fell and hurt myself.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
I push past him to get to my room. My brother follows, stopping me before I can close the door. “Tell me the truth,” he demands.
“I did!”
“Did you fight with someone?”
“No … no …” I stare at the floor, hands fisted against my thighs. I begin to shake, tremors running throughout my body. Still, I don’t say anything. Finally Mohammed gives up.
“Ramy … never mind. You get some rest,” he says and leaves.
I think my brother must know the truth, but doesn’t want to—can’t—face it.
Finally, alone and in bed, I cannot sleep. I keep thinking about Sammy. I’ve ruined our relationship because of a single mistake, a single kiss.
When night becomes morning, I ride to school with Mohammed once again. But I decide to skip class and try to find Sammy. I look for him first in the band room; he isn’t there. I try the cafeteria and then outside, near the benches; no sign of him there, either. Frustrated, I take a taxi to the grocery store where he works, but his boss tells me he didn’t come in to work today. Where is he? I need to see him so I can apologize. I don’t know what came over me, I’ll tell him. I have destroyed our friendship, I’ll say. And it’s the most important thing in the world to me. But Sammy is nowhere to be found.
When I get home that night, Mohammed surprises me by telling me that we are invited for dinner at Jameela’s
house again. Immediately, I feel the need to speak to her so that I can confess how I feel about Sammy, to tell her how much I’m hurting. But I know that isn’t possible.
“Can’t we reschedule it?” I ask.
“No, that wouldn’t be the right thing to do,” Mohammed says.
“But I don’t feel like going today. My face is bruised, and my ribs still hurt.”
“We told the family we’re coming. It would be rude to cancel. Go get some rest; you’ll feel better later.”
I give up and go upstairs to my room. Maybe I’ll fall asleep and never wake up. I lie on my bed trying to stifle my tears. It’s wrong to feel sorry for myself, but I feel like the entire world has turned against me. Seeing Jameela won’t make things any better. And if I were to marry her, wouldn’t it ruin her future by making her suffer along with me?
I shut my eyes and am drifting off when a voice whispers in my ear, “Hello, Ramy.” My eyes snap open to see a little monster—no, a monster wouldn’t look as innocent as this creature. It is small and pink and smiles at me. I open my mouth to speak, but before I can say anything, it puts a finger on my lips.
“I’m Angel Gabriel,” he says.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t believe you,” I say. “I don’t believe in God and angels.”
“Then you’re an idiot!” the creature says. “If you don’t believe in God, why do you go to Friday prayers?”
“We all do,” I respond. “It’s tradition.”
“If you go to the mosque, it should be because you want to, not because it’s tradition.”
“Oh, yes, and pray to a God who condemns me? Why would I want to do that?”
“Who says God condemns you?”
“It’s pretty clear, what … whoever you are.”
The little creature scoffs. “I told you, my name is Gabriel. And I know what I’m talking about.”
