God in Pink

by Hasan Namir

  “So why are you here?”

  Gabriel leans over and kisses me on the lips. “That is from God,” he says and laughs.

  “What do you mean?” I say, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth.

  “God sends you a kiss and invites you to come to the mosque this Friday.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  Then I remember my letter to the sheikh. “Does this have anything to do with the colour pink?” I ask.

  “Maybe.”

  The creature grins, then flutters up to the ceiling and disappears. What was that about? I ask myself. As I rub my eyes, I’m certain that this was a dream. But it felt too real.

  At Jameela’s home that night, we all gather around the dining room table which is covered with heaping plates of food, including maqluba, a casserole of fried eggplant and meats; tashreeb, a chicken stew; and fausolia, a soup of white beans and lamb.

  “Jameela cooked everything today,” Jameela’s mother announces proudly.

  “You’re so talented, Jameela,” Noor says with a smile. Jameela looks at me expectantly. I smile but don’t say anything. After dinner, we sit in the living room, drinking tea and eating homemade biscuits. Noor and Khala Najwa talk about a man who proposed to Jameela last year.

  “He was a good boy,” Najwa says. “He came from a good family.”

  “Why did she refuse him then?” Noor asks.

  “He said he was in love with me, but it was all too quick, you know,” Jameela says, answering for herself. “Love has to be built and developed. That’s what I believe.”

  I nod. “You’re right,” I say, but I am still thinking about Sammy.

  In mathematics class the next morning, we are given an exam, the last before the final test to determine if we will graduate. With all that has happened, I had completely forgotten about it, so I didn’t study. I stare at the questions; my mind is blank. My brain is not working. I cannot remember anything I’ve learned. Where is Sammy? Why am I here? I am wasting my time.

  I get up and storm out the door before the teacher can say anything. As I walk down the hallway, I see Sammy coming toward me. I can’t believe my eyes. He stops and stares at me, saying nothing for what seems like eternity. Then he surprises me by asking, “Can we talk?”

  “Yes,” I say a little too quickly.

  We go outside and sit on a bench in silence. I refuse to begin the conversation, since I don’t know what to say. Maybe I should begin by apologizing. But then, he was the one who beat me up.

  “Ramy, I’m sorry about what happened,” Sammy finally says.

  “No, if anyone should be sorry, it’s me,” I respond. “I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was angry and violent. That’s not me. I don’t know what happened.”

  “No, I made a mistake.” Why can’t I accept his apology?

  “All you did was kiss me.”

  “I know, but it’s wrong.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  I try not to appear surprised. “What … what do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  Sammy stares at the ground in front of him.

  “Ramy … I … I’m gay.” He turns to look at me.

  At first, I don’t know what to do. Then as if it is the most natural thing in the world, I pull him to me and put my arms around him. In spite of Sammy’s torment, I feel like flying.

  “When you kissed me, I felt bad because I liked it,” he says. “I didn’t think. I reacted.”

  All of a sudden, Sammy kisses me. When he pulls away, he says, “The other night, I should’ve kissed you back.”

  “Well, you just did, didn’t you?” I say.

  “I guess I did,” he says, smiling.

  I can’t believe what is happening. My heart is racing. “I never thought this would happen. I would have never guessed that you …”

  “It’s so hard here. We cannot speak of it. Homosexuals are not citizens. They’re heathens, to most. But they don’t know us very well, do they? Maybe when they do, they’ll be able to accept us as God should accept us.”

  “That will never happen, habibi,” I say. I think about Mohammed and Noor. I’m certain they believe that homosexuality is a disease that needs to be cured. But if Mohammed, my older brother, my father substitute, truly loves me…

  “Does your family know?” I ask.

  “No, and they never will.” Sammy looks at me gravely.

  I nod. “My brother and his wife are the same. They tell us that we should marry women and have children like everyone else. Our religion condemns homosexuality. Allah sends the lotees to hell. This is what has been drummed into our heads.”

  “If you had to choose right now between family and marriage and the one you love, which would you choose?” Sammy asks.

  I don’t respond. I can’t.

  “We have to be hypocrites, don’t we?” He looks at me, shakes his head sadly, then perks up. “Come to my house, Ramy. We can talk. Maybe you can stay for dinner?”

  “What about your mother and sister?”

  “It’s no big deal. You’re my friend.”

  “All right.”

  “Good,” he says, then grins.

  We arrive at Sammy’s apartment in Al-Sa’adoon. As soon as he opens the door, I hear his mother yell, “Sammy, are you home?”

  We enter the living room together. “Hello, Mother. Remember Ramy?”

  “Yes. I do.” She says hello, but looks at me as if I’m an insect she’d like to squash. Does she know?

  “Ramy is going to stay for dinner. Okay?”

  She doesn’t respond. “Come see my room,” Sammy says to me.

  His room is very basic; a bed, a desk, and not much else. But on the walls are posters of Angelina Jolie and the Spice Girls.

  “I love the Spice Girls. They’re awesome. And Britney, too,” he says, grinning.

  “Where’s your computer?” I ask, looking around.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t see the point. All I need is my guitar.” He picks it up and begins to play a few notes.

  “I wish I could play an instrument,” I say. “You’re an amazing guitarist.”

  Suddenly he puts the guitar down and pulls me into his arms. He kisses me, but this time he lingers, then nudges me onto the bed. I quickly glance at the door to make sure it’s locked. What about his mother? Before I know it, Sammy is caressing me gently as he slides himself into me. Beads of perspiration form on my forehead. Lost in the moment, I reach a hand between my own legs.

  Sabah al-khair. It is Friday morning. I had no sleep last night. I am only awake because I’ve had three cups of coffee. Taking my seat on the king’s chair before prayers, I look about at the mosque’s walls, on which the names of Allah and our prophet are spelled out. Many men and their children are gathered before me, waiting for me to speak. The women upstairs are also waiting. I see Abaddon; her cold eyes are filled with hate.

  “As-salamu alaykum,” I intone.

  Everyone replies in a unified voice: “Wa-alaykum-as-salaam.”

  I clear my throat, open my notebook, and put on my glasses.

  “My dear brothers and sisters, I’ve had requests from many of you to continue our discussion of Islam and homosexuality. So I have prepared another small lecture to further explore this problem.” I pick up the cup of water on the small table in front of me and take a sip.

  “My dear brothers and sisters, I think it is obvious that homosexuality is unlawful in Islam. It is neither accepted by the state nor by Islamic society. The Qur’an clearly says that it is unjust, unnatural, a transgression; it is criminal and corrupt.” I look over the verses from the Qur’an that condemn homosexuality. They are the same quotes I used the last time. But I will read them aloud again.

  “The holy scripture tells us: ‘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 problem with the Holy Qur’an is that it doesn’t specify what kind of indecency these two men might commit. It doesn’t say whether it is with one another or with others. It is vague, but I believe that Allah means two men having sexual relations with one another. And that is haram.”

  I awaken to a sweet kiss from Sammy. He reaches a hand inside my shirt.

  “The Qur’an clearly condemns homosexuality, doesn’t it? It is there in black and white—and pink—my brothers and sisters. Don’t believe otherwise.”

  I kiss Sammy back, our mouths joined.

  “‘You lust after men instead of women. Truly, you are a degenerate people,’ the Qur’an tells us.”

  Sammy and I spend the early hours in each other’s arms. Morning has never felt so wonderful.

  “Do you commit indecency with your eyes open, lustfully seeking men instead of women? Surely you are an ignorant people.”

  “I think I should go home now,” I quietly say to Sammy. “I was supposed to go to Friday prayers with Mohammed. He’ll be furious with me.”

  I glance around; my audience is obviously uncomfortable. “Does anyone have any questions? Any concerns?”

  The mosque is silent. No one moves or makes a sound. It seems as though there are no questions. But eventually one man raises his hand and asks, “If we know someone is homosexual, do we kill them?”

  I pause for a moment, searching for the right answer. “Let God be the judge. If they deserve punishment, it would be for God to decide.”

  I arrive home, knowing that Mohammed is in the kitchen waiting for me. He is indeed sitting at the table, fingering his prayer beads and praying quietly.

  “Where were you?” he asks.

  “I was studying at my friend’s house,” I lie. He puts the beads on the table and looks at me suspiciously.

  “Is that right? I saw your mathematics professor yesterday afternoon. He told me you did well on your exam.” Mohammed is being sarcastic. “Where were you last night, Ramy?” he persists.

  “I told you, I was studying at my friend’s.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “His name is Sammy. He goes to school with me.” I begin to walk away; I don’t need this confrontation right now.

  “And you missed Friday prayers.”

  “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Aren’t you curious what today’s lecture was about?” Then suddenly I remember my strange visitor, who had implored me to go. Oh no! “Sheikh Ammar talked about homosexuality.”

  “Did he?” Now I’m afraid. And curious.

  “The topic disgusts me. What do you think?”

  “It’s contrary to the Qur’an,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Never mind. Don’t forget that tonight we’re going to Jameela’s house.”

  “But we were just there.”

  “Yes, and we’re going again tonight.”

  “But why?”

  He smiles and puts an arm around my shoulder. “Because you are going to propose to her.”

  My heart starts to race. “But—why so soon? I barely know her.”

  “You’ve met with her a few times now. Noor and I think you are ready.”

  “But I still have two more months until I graduate.”

  “Well, if you pass and graduate, then we’ll have you two married in no time. It’ll make Baba and Mama very happy.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Ramy, you don’t understand. If we wait too long, someone else might propose to Jameela.”

  I nod and sigh. I don’t have the strength to fight him right now. “Okay, Mohammed. Whatever you say.”

  I slump to my room. There I imagine Sammy lying on the bed waiting for me. I fight back the tears, then turn around and head downstairs right past Mohammed.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, but I don’t respond.

  I have decided to see Sheikh Ammar. I cannot wait any longer. I need to know if he is willing to help me. By the time I arrive at his house, I’m breathless with anticipation. I knock on the door and the sheikh’s young son answers.

  “As-salamu alaykum. Is Sheikh Ammar at home?” Ammar comes to the door and nudges his son to the side.

  “Wa-alaykum-as-salaam, Hassan,” he greets me. “Your wounds have already healed.”

  “I came for tea, sir, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Of course. You are more than welcome anytime.”

  I smile and follow him into the house. He leads me to the living room, where I sit down on a couch. I look around and feel intimidated by the drawings and paintings of faith all around me.

  Sheikh Ammar takes a seat facing me. “I was hoping to see you today at the Friday prayers,” he says, hands folded in his lap.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t come. I had family issues.”

  “I hope that all your issues have been resolved,” he replies benevolently.

  If only it were that easy.

  The sheikh’s wife appears bearing a tray of tea cups and a plate of biscuits. She is wearing a hejab and her face is free of makeup. Is this life my fate? I think. She sets the tray on the table without a word and just as quietly leaves.

  “What brings you here today?” the sheikh prods.

  Before I can respond, his son enters. The sheikh turns to him and says, “Can you excuse us please, Jaffar?” I’m impressed that Ammar treats his son respectfully, like an adult. Mohammed still treats me like a child, always talking down to me. I sense genuine warmth in Sheikh Ammar, an easiness that encourages me to be honest with him.

  “I want to confess something,” I tell him.

  He puts his hands up. “Before you go on, I want to assure you that you are free to say anything. I am not your father. Or even your brother Mohammed.”

  “How do you know my brother?”

  “He comes to prayers frequently. He’s one of the more dedicated members. It’s obvious you are brothers.”

  I sigh. “So you know my name isn’t Hassan.”

  He grins. “I know,” he says.

  “But how? Did Mohammed tell you?”

  “No. I just know. What is your name, brother?” he asks.

  “Ramy.”

  “That’s a beautiful name. But Hassan is even more beautiful. It is the name of Imam Ali’s son.” He smiles.

  “And I want to tell you something else,” I say hesitantly.

  “You’re not Ramy either?”

  His humour makes me smile. “I want to say …” I can’t find the words; this is more difficult than I thought it would be. I finally blurt out, “Pink.”

  Sheikh Ammar’s eyes widen as he silently stares at me.

  Shinoo? What? Sooner or later, I expected to meet the writer of that letter. But I do not want to help this young man. I look up and see Gabriel near the ceiling, wings fluttering, looking on with approval, as if I have just achieved something great. What am I to say? Gabriel is no help. I pick up my teacup and begin sipping. Ramy does the same.

  God forgive me. I feel claustrophobic and begin to sweat.

  “Are you all right, Sheikh?” the young man asks.

  I reach for a napkin to wipe the sweat from my brow. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

  He pauses for a moment, then tells me that he was the one who wrote the letter and that he needs my help. But how can I help a homosexual man? I must follow God’s words in the Qur’an, the holiest book.

  “Exactly how can I help you?” I finally ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says despondently, then stares at the floor.

  I sit back on the couch and sigh. I was afraid this would happen. The sheikh doesn’t appear to have any desire to help me. I look at him; he is silent and appears to be deep in thought. Then I realize that he’s fighting a battle too, a war between his heart, his mind, and his soul. Not unlike Sammy and me. But I think his struggle must pose a further dilemma: a part of him wants to help me, yet he feels he must obey God and the Qur�
��an.

  “So, are you going to help me?” I challenge, returning to the subject at hand.

  “I’m not sure how I can help someone who is homosexual,” he says.

  His words hurt me, but who else can I turn to?

  “My suggestion … is to try to resist it and get married and have a family,” he says.

  I feel panicky. I thought the sheikh would have more compassion.

  “But I won’t be happy and neither will my wife,” I say.

  We both hear a shuffling noise and turn toward it. Ammar’s son has been standing in the doorway, listening. “Jaffar! Go to your room!” the sheikh shouts. The boy scurries away.

  “If you’re not willing to change, how can I help you?” Ammar continues.

  “Why do I need to change?”

  “It’s simple. God damns the lotees. Haven’t you read the Qur’an?”

  “I’ve read the Qur’an, and I know the passages you’re referring to. None of them clearly condemns homosexuality.”

  “But these are the words of God.”

  “No,” I say. “People misinterpret the words to suit their beliefs.” I can’t believe my own audacity. How dare I challenge a holy man? The sheikh gets up and grabs the Qur’an from a nearby table. He flips through several pages and stops. “God says in the Qur’an, ‘We also sent Lot.’ He said to his people: ‘Do ye commit lewdness such as no people in creation ever committed before you? For ye practice your lusts on men in preference to women: ye are indeed a people transgressing beyond bounds.’ I assume you have heard the story of Lot.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “You can find it in the Hebrew scriptures too. And in the bibles of Christianity.”

  “I thought the people of Lot were punished for adultery, not specifically for homosexuality.”

  “Weren’t you listening? God clearly states it was for having preferences for men instead of women.”

  “Wasn’t Lot’s wife punished, too? She wasn’t a man, was she?” I challenge.

  “Yes, but—”

  “So they weren’t punished simply for their so-called homosexuality.”

  He is quiet for a moment, then says, “There’s a quote from Prophet Muhammed, peace be upon him, that says, ‘When a man mounts another man, the throne of God shakes.’”