God in Pink

by Hasan Namir

  I point the gun at Mohammed’s head. He throws his arms up in the air.

  “And now you want me to get married? How can I marry Jameela when I’m not even attracted to her? Or any other woman, for that matter.”

  “Ramy, look, he never touched you. I swear.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “I’m sorry you think that, Ramy, but I’m not lying. Look, if you need to see a doctor, I’ll take you tomorrow. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

  I put my finger on the trigger. Mohammed shuts his eyes; Noor screams. I lift the gun and aim it at him, then pull the trigger. The shot is loud, and I’m momentarily stunned. “I’m fucking gay, Mohammed!” I scream.

  The words echo in my head when I wake up. Have I shouted them out loud? It was a horrifying dream.

  I open the drawer of my night table and take out the watch that Mohammed gave me for my sixteenth birthday; a gift, too, for my silence. When he gave it to me, he said, “When your son grows up, pass this on to him.” I wrap both hands around the watch and hold it close to my heart.

  It is a few nights later. The sky is coal-black, brightened by flickering stars that look down at Sammy and me as I rest in his arms. We are standing outside the car, staring at a full moon; its beauty and tranquility belie this violent, narrow-minded country. Too many people here are blinded by tradition, bent on maintaining the status quo, and upholding the word of Allah. Iraq could be a place of beauty too, if only its heart weren’t so corrupted.

  “The moon looks so free,” I tell Sammy. “No one tells it what to do.”

  “Yes, but even the moon is restricted by routine. It repeats its cycle over and over again. It never dies.”

  “You’re right. Immortality doesn’t bring happiness. We mortals need to stick together.”

  He kisses me. I feel guilty for not telling Sammy the truth. I know I should tell him about my engagement with Jameela, but I cannot. I take a deep breath.

  “I wish we could run away together somewhere,” I say.

  “Sure. I mean, wouldn’t we all rather live somewhere else? A better country?”

  “Somewhere like Turkey. Or America.” Suddenly I don’t feel so despondent. Tell him the truth, Ramy, I tell myself. You can’t put it off forever.

  “Sammy … there is something I have to tell you.”

  He looks at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sammy … I’m engaged now.”

  “What?”

  “I’m engaged. To a woman.”

  Then I tell him the whole story from beginning to end, my heart aching more with each word. When I’m done, I look into Sammy’s eyes and see anger, but mostly hurt. Mostly hurt.

  “So what are you going to do?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I don’t love her. I know I’m going to make her life miserable.”

  “Why didn’t you tell your brother the truth?”

  “That I’m gay? I can’t!”

  “No, I mean you should have told Mohammed that you don’t like Jameela.”

  “But then he’d just find someone else for me, Sammy. I need your help. I don’t know what to do.”

  “What about us?”

  “That’s why I’m telling you this. I want to be with you for the rest of my life.”

  “But you don’t really know me …” His voice trails off.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, do you really know me?”

  “Sammy, of course. I know you. Like, inside and out.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you, Ramy …” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “What I’m saying is, I can’t wait for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have a fiancée now. You just have to accept it.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “What’s that supposed to mean? So you’re not going to fight for me?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  I hesitate. I don’t really know. I was hoping that he’d know what to do. But now Sammy is turning his back on me, when I need him the most.

  “Sammy, I need you. We can’t just say goodbye and that’s that.”

  “You know I can’t come between you and your future wife.”

  “But I don’t want to be with her.”

  “Yeah, you’ve made that clear.”

  “And I don’t want to lose my brother either.”

  “Look, Ramy, we all have to make sacrifices in life. You can’t have it all.”

  “But why can’t I have both you and Jameela?” But even I know how ridiculous this sounds.

  “Ramy, you have to understand my situation. I can’t come between you and Jameela. If you choose to marry her, you have to live with the consequences.”

  I feel broken right now. Incomplete.

  “Sammy, please.”

  “Eventually you’ll move on and forget about me.” How can he be so cold?

  “I’ll never forget about you,” I sob.

  When he drops me off at home, I look at him long and hard. I don’t ever want to forget his face. Then, without a word, I get out of the car.

  Mohammed is up, seated at the kitchen table waiting for me. When he asks yet again, “Where were you?” I tell him I was at a friend’s house. Whether he believes me or not, I don’t care.

  In my room, I lie on the bed and cry until there are no tears left. The next morning, I ignore Mohammed as he repeatedly knocks on the door, yelling, “Wake up, Ramy.”

  “I’m sick,” I finally reply.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Look, open the door.”

  “I’m sick. Please, Mohammed, just let me rest.”

  I put a pillow over my head and pretend to fall back to sleep. After a while, he finally gives up.

  A little later, I hear Noor’s whispery voice at the door. “Ramy, it’s me.” I get up and open it and she walks in with a tray of food. “I thought you might want to eat.”

  “I’m not really hungry, Noor.”

  She sits on the bed next to me. “What’s wrong, habibi? You can tell me anything.”

  “I swear nothing is wrong, Noor. I’m fine.” I turn my head to face the wall.

  “Is it about the engagement?”

  I pause before saying, “No.”

  “Look at me, Ramy.” I turn around. “I only want happiness for you. If you’re not happy about something, tell me, and I will help you.”

  I fall into her arms. “I love you so much,” I say. Still, despite her kindness, I cannot bring myself to tell her the truth.

  Ya rab. I wake up early today and feel refreshed. In the kitchen, I drink a glass of milk and eat an egg sandwich. Then I return to my room. Shams is beginning to stir. She opens her eyes and sees me, but she looks away; she is ashamed of what happened last night. But she will forget about it, I tell myself, and move on.

  I leave the house and take a taxi to Ramy’s; I’ve already gotten his address by asking at the mosque. His brother is coming out as I arrive, on his way to work. He seems ecstatic to see me.

  “What a surprise! How are you, Sheikh Ammar? How’s your family?”

  “Great, thank you.”

  “What brings you here today?”

  “I came to see your brother. Is he home?”

  “Yes, he is …” A look of concern comes across Mohammed’s face. “What has he done?” he asks. “What trouble has he caused?”

  “No, nothing of the sort,” I say. “You go on to work. I just want to speak with him.”

  “This is the first time you’ve visited my house. I must welcome you properly.”

  “No, no. You’re going to be late, brother.”

  Mohammed sighs. “All right,” he says, looking reluctant to leave. He must be a little suspicious. I assume that Ramy hasn’t told Mohammed his secret. I don’t blame him; Mohammed might do something rash. After all, I remember what Mohammed asked at the mosque.

  I knock on the door and a woman answers. I assume she is Mohammed’s wife.

  “As-sal
amu alaykum, sister,” I greet her.

  “Wa-alaykum-as-salaam.”

  “May I have a word with Ramy?”

  “He’ll be coming down in a few minutes. Won’t you come inside?”

  I nod and she leads me into the living room before repairing to the kitchen. I am looking at family photographs on the wall when Ramy comes bounding down the stairs.

  “What a surprise,” he says.

  “Wa-alaykum-as-salaam. Is this how you greet a guest? Where are your manners?”

  “No, it’s just that … I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I came to have a chat with you. But maybe it’s not such a good idea to talk here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the topic of our conversation might not be appropriate for others to hear.”

  Ramy closes the living room door, then sits down across from me. “So, what do you want?”

  “Ramy, I first want to apologize to you for my behaviour the last time we met.”

  I wonder what has caused such a drastic change in Sheikh Ammar.

  “I really wanted to help you, yet I couldn’t,” he tells me.

  “And now you can help me?” I don’t trust him; he must see that.

  “I can try.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.” He looks troubled.

  “What is it, Sheikh Ammar? You came to talk to me, so go ahead.”

  “I felt bad because I dismissed you so hastily. I didn’t take the time to even consider a possible solution to your problem. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Why the sudden change?” I ask angrily and get up.

  “What do you mean?”

  I turn and glare at him.

  “May I have a glass of water?” he asks. Without replying, I retreat to the kitchen.

  Ramy is confused; I don’t blame him. I am known for being consistent in my beliefs, for being strong and solid. I don’t understand what’s happening to me either. But in some small way, it feels good; I want to embrace it.

  Ramy returns and hands me a glass of water, then sits on the couch across from me again.

  “Did I tell you I’m engaged now?” he says with a smirk.

  Sheikh Ammar mutters his congratulations without looking at me. There is something different about him. But what?

  “You are looking forward to your marriage?” he asks.

  “No. I’m only doing it to make Mohammed and Noor happy.”

  “And what would make you happy?”

  I think about it for a moment. “Going to America,” I say. “But that’s a hopeless dream. I’d love to see the Statue of Liberty in person.”

  “A statue is a statue. How can it give you freedom if it’s just an object? You shouldn’t depend on an object for freedom. You have to find freedom within yourself.”

  “It’s impossible to find freedom in this shitty country,” I reply, the anger palpable in my throat. I think of Sammy and our last kiss. “I don’t want to live here anymore. I don’t want to get married or have children. But what can I do?”

  “Ramy, you want to live in a perfect world,” the sheikh says. “I don’t think such a place exists.”

  Maybe he’s right. But I want to live somewhere I can be free to love another man. “I want to live my life,” I say.

  “America is not as free as you think it is. And do you know anyone there?”

  “No.”

  Sheikh Ammar sighs. “You can’t live your life like this,” he says. “You must pray to Allah for forgiveness. You have to ask Him for help. What I want to tell you is that you can change.”

  “How can I change?”

  “You must supress these feelings that you have. I suggest you get married. This… this will be better for you.”

  “What’s the point of lying to yourself and lying to your wife and children?”

  Sheikh Ammar’s face goes pale. “Ya Allah. Brother, you can’t do this.”

  I stand up to shake hands with Sheikh Ammar; he suddenly kisses me on the cheek, mere millimetres from my lips. What has just happened?

  “I’m sorry,” he says and leaves the house quickly.

  In the afternoon, I take a taxi to the university to look for Sammy. The thought of never seeing him again is unbearable. Wandering through the halls, I bump into Mohammed. He gives me a surprised look. “I thought you were sick!”

  “I came to do some studying,” I say, even though I don’t have my books with me. Mohammed is not stupid, and I should know better than to try to lie to him. Habit, I guess.

  “Your exams are coming up, you know,” he says sternly.

  “I know, I know. I’m studying very hard.” But now that I think about it, do I even want to pass? I mean, if I do and get my degree, I’ll have no excuse to keep from marrying.

  “What did Sheikh Ammar want?” he asks.

  “He wanted to know why I haven’t been attending prayers,” I lie. “He’s asking others too; I was on a list.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him I’ve been nervous about my upcoming marriage.”

  “I hope he wasn’t angry,” Mohammed says. “I’m going home. Do you want a ride?”

  “I’m going to stay and study.”

  “Okay, suit yourself,” he says, then leaves.

  I sigh in relief and continue my search for Sammy. Although if I find him, I’m not sure of what I might say.

  Astaghfirullah. What have I done? How could I do this to myself, to my family? Shame, shame on you, Ammar. How can I go home now? I can’t face anyone. I walk down the street despondent, feeling dirty. I am a sheikh, a holy man, yet I am worse than a criminal. What is happening to me? He is so young, so troubled. He was seeking my strength, my knowledge and guidance. And I …

  I knock on the door and Sammy’s mother answers it.

  “Hello, khala. Is Sammy home?”

  “Yes, he is,” she answers sternly. I’m relieved to hear that he’s home. She leads me inside without a word; it’s obvious she still doesn’t like me. What has Sammy told her about me? I find him in his room; he looks at me sternly too. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “I need to talk to you,” I answer.

  “I thought I made it clear. It’s over.”

  “It’s not over for me.”

  He grabs my arm. “Are you crazy? Why are you here?” he says, then storms out of the room toward the front door. I follow him outside.

  “Sammy, wait! I need you.”

  “Stop it! My mother will hear you.”

  “I love you, Sammy.” My voice sounds plaintive, even to me. I step closer to kiss him, but he pushes me away.

  “What are you doing? People will see.”

  His beautiful hazel eyes are filled with anger. He turns and marches back inside. I am shattered.

  Drowning in an ocean of guilt, I shiver. I am standing at the door of my house holding the doorknob, too weak to open it. I struggle to speak.

  Shams opens the door. “Ammar,” she gasps. “What’s wrong?” She takes my arm and pulls me inside, locking the door behind us.

  “I’m cold.”

  She leads me to our bed and covers me with several blankets.

  “Bardan,” I say. I’m so cold.

  “I know, habibi.”

  Jaffar comes in, takes my hand and kisses it. “Are you all right, Baba?”

  I pat his hand to reassure him. Shams leans over and kisses me on the forehead.

  Mohammed insists that I visit Jameela. He tells me that I should see my fiancée every day and get to know her better. But I have no desire for that. I only do it because I have no choice.

  At the dinner table with Jameela and her parents, I smile and nod at the appropriate times. Her parents do most of the talking. Jameela notices how quiet I am and remains quiet herself. After dinner, her parents leave us alone to sit in the living room and drink tea.

  “I want to show you what I’ve been working on,” she tells me.

 
She gets up and leaves the room. Moments later, she returns with a painting that looks unfinished. I see different shades of pink representing incomplete shapes.

  “Why did you choose pink?”

  “Pink is the colour of love and affection. It’s one of my favourite colours.”

  I nod but don’t say anything.

  “Why are you always so quiet?” she asks.

  “Jameela, tell me something. You were engaged to that other man. Why did you choose me and not him?” I say, ignoring her question.

  She pauses, then says, “I think … because you’re a work in progress.”

  Ya Rab saa’dny. Ya Rab ehdeny. God, please help me. I haven’t stopped shivering, despite being smothered by many layers of blankets. Shams has been putting wet cloths on my forehead, an old tradition that many think cures a fever. It hasn’t worked so far.

  “What happened?” she asks as she combs my damp hair. “Nothing,” I mutter. I find it difficult to keep my teeth from chattering. All of a sudden I see Abaddon at the foot of the bed, a cunning grin on her face.

  “I’ll heat up some more water,” Shams says. When she leaves, Abaddon comes closer.

  “You never listen to my advice, and now you’re going to hell,” Abaddon says. She sits on the edge of the bed beside me. “When you kiss me, I don’t feel any love,” she complains, leaning closer. “You are a hypocrite.”

  Her face is covered by a burka. She slowly removes it, and I realize that Abaddon is my wife.

  In class, other students are poring over the exam like they know what they’re doing. I try my best, but it feels hopeless. I am certain I will fail it. Perhaps it is for the best; at least then I might not have to marry Jameela.

  When the exam is over, I walk past the band room again to see if Sammy is there. But then I realize that it no longer matters; he doesn’t want to see me anymore. Why should I care for him? But I stand outside the empty room, wishing that things were different.

  “Ramy.”

  The voice surprises me; my heart starts to race. I turn and see Sammy.

  He touches my arm gently. “Can we talk?”

  Ya Rab saa’dny. I sit up in bed; I’m no longer shivering. Shams sits next to me, caressing my arm with her soft fingers.