by Hasan Namir
“Can you leave me alone? I need time to think,” I tell her.
“You need me by your side, Ammar.”
“I know. Just a few minutes please, darling.”
She nods and leaves the room. I get up and lock the door, then go to my wife’s dressing table.
Sammy and I walk past the benches toward the trees. When I’m with him, the time, the place, even I myself seem to disappear. I can only see, feel, smell Sammy.
“What do we do now, Ramy?”
I sigh, not knowing what to say. I remember when Ali and I were in a similar situation. We wanted to be together, but couldn’t.
“You know, Sammy, if I could choose between you and Jameela, I’d pick you in a minute. Honestly, you mean everything to me.”
“If you marry Jameela, I can’t be with you.”
“I don’t want to be with her.” Even to me, my voice sounds whiny, childish.
“Come here,” he says and pulls me into his arms. Glancing around quickly to make sure no one can see us, he puts his lips on mine. I feel alive again.
Allah hates the lotees. I take off my clothes and look into the mirror. Shino hatha al jamal. There is hair everywhere on my body; it disgusts me. I don’t recognize the person in the mirror. What in God’s name is happening to me? Suddenly, there is a knock at the door, and Shams’ voice calls my name.
“Yes, habibti?”
“Sheikh Jassem is here to see you.” He is the leader of the neighbourhood mosque. My mosque.
“What does he want from me?”
“I don’t know. He’s waiting in the living room.”
I groan, quickly put my clothes back on, and head for the living room. Sheikh Jassem is dressed in the traditional dishdasha, a smile on his bearded face. He has grown old since I last saw him.
“As-salamu alaykum, brother Ammar,” he greets me.
I return the salaams and shake his hand. He looks perplexed. Did he expect me to kiss him on the cheek, too?
“Sit down, Jassem,” I say. “Would you like tea?”
“No, thank you, brother. I have business to attend to.”
“Then why are you here?” He seems surprised by my bluntness.
“Brother Ammar, is something wrong?” His voice is filled with concern.
“What do you mean? I’m perfectly fine. Why would you think there’s something wrong?”
“Then why haven’t you been attending the mosque?”
“Because … I am retiring,” I blurt out.
Sheikh Jassem’s eyes widen. “Retiring? Why, brother?”
“I’m getting old, and I want to rest.”
“No, no. You have so many years left,” Jassem says. He is twenty years older than me, but youthful and full of energy.
“Brother, I cannot do it anymore,” I respond. And it’s true. I cannot bear the thought. It’s time for me to retire.
“But why? Has something happened?” I have no answer, at least none that would satisfy him. Finally, without saying anything, he nods and leaves. I know I have disappointed him, but I cannot be a holy man now, cannot see a way to reconcile my new feelings with Islam. It can’t be done.
Shams comes in and looks at me sternly.
“What?” I ask.
“Is it true what I just heard?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“If you’re retiring, how are we going to live?”
That hasn’t crossed my mind. How is my family going to live, indeed?
Sammy and I are driving in the middle of the night. He has one hand on the wheel as he holds his arm around me, and I feel safe. I don’t need anyone else, just him. I take his hand and kiss it.
We see a checkpoint ahead and both of us sit up. During Saddam’s reign, we had no checkpoints, but now there are too many of them. There are Sunni and Shia areas, a distinction we didn’t have before. It is a sad situation. Before the war, we were all Iraqis. Mohammed is Sunni and Noor is Shia, yet they reconciled their differences and got married because they loved each other. I don’t know whether Sammy is Sunni or Shia, and I don’t care.
Two officers approach us and ask for Sammy’s identification card. He pulls it out of his wallet and hands it the officer, who is about the same age as us. Since the war, people have become savages, and for what? We say we have freedom, but it is more like the worst kind of anarchy. Theft, murders, torture—and they call us criminals for our sexuality.
The officer looks at Sammy. “Are you Sunni or Shia?” he asks.
“Both.”
“Explain.”
“My mother is Shia. My father is Sunni.”
The officer turns to me. “And you?”
“I’m both, too.”
He returns to the other officer and they confer. I covertly hold Sammy’s hand for comfort. When the officer comes back, he tells us to get out of the car.
Sammy and I look at each other. We must do what they say. If we disobey them, the consequences could be bad. We get out of the car, and the officer tells us to follow him to the office.
Bismillah. I am alone in my bedroom again, contemplating recent events.
“As-salamu alaykum,” a voice greets me. I look up to see the handsome young man who has changed my world, brought me face to face with my truth. I really didn’t believe that this man existed; I thought he was a hallucination, a dream. I want to return his greeting, but my voice fails me. He takes a few steps and sits across from me, a smile on his boyish face. He gazes at me for a long time, then reaches for my hand.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
The handsome young man points at my wedding band and says, “You’re married.” I take the ring off and place it on the table. He then proceeds to unbutton my shirt.
“I’m going to make you happy,” he says. Sweat starts to bead on my forehead, and my breath quickens. Suddenly, I’m jolted awake. Looking around, I see that I’m alone, a splotch of semen beside me.
“Allahu-Akbar … Allahu-Akbar …” The Friday call for prayer comes from a distance, the sheikh’s voice echoing in my ears. Each syllable cuts into my impure heart. The sheikh intones that God is the greatest, God is the greatest. We as Muslims must be clean and pure. But not me. I’m the sheikh who has repudiated Islam.
I’m drowning in a river of darkness, struggling to breathe. Where am I? Where is Sammy?
“Hello?” I call out over and over. Finally a voice responds: “Ramy?”
“Sammy? What’s going on?” I can’t see him, can’t move. I’m tied to something and my eyes are blindfolded.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“Help! Help!” I shout. But the only sound I hear is laughter in the distance.
Bismillah. I go into Jaffar’s bedroom and see him reading the Qur’an. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“You can see what I’m doing, Baba. You know I do it every evening.”
“Don’t,” I command.
He looks up in surprise. “Why not? I don’t understand.”
“Where is this book going to take us? We think we know what it represents, but we don’t. There are too many lies, ebny. Lies.”
“But you told me to read the Qur’an every night.” He looks confused.
“I made a mistake. We are human beings. We are not infallible. Now, please, don’t read it anymore.”
“But it helps me go to sleep when I read a few verses.”
I pause. I cannot force Jaffar to do what he doesn’t want to do. I let him be and leave the room. As I’m going down the stairs, the doorbell rings. It is Ramy’s brother, Mohammed.
“As-salamu alaykum, brother,” he says.
“What are you doing here, Mohammed?” I ask. I feel like returning salaams isn’t appropriate anymore. It would be hypocritical.
“It’s about Ramy, brother.”
“What has happened?”
“He hasn’t come home since yesterday, and I’m worried.” Someone takes my blindfold off; the light is dim. My wrists
are chained to a wall. Sammy is across from me, chained too.
“What’s going on, Sammy?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.”
His forehead is wet with sweat. I wish I could wipe it away and kiss his brow. As I’m tugging at the chains, trying to free my wrists, the two officers come toward us. They are laughing.
“So what you lotees doing here?”
“We’re not lotees,” Sammy replies.
One of them slaps Sammy across the face. I cringe and yell, “No!”
“No?” he says, and slaps me twice. I can bear my own pain, but not Sammy’s.
“What have we done wrong?” Sammy asks.
“Your problem is that you’re lotees.”
“No, we’re not,” I say.
“Are you sure? Let’s find out.”
They unchain Sammy and turn him around.
“No, no, please!” I yell.
Ignoring me, they unbutton his jeans. I close my eyes. When I open them again, one officer is ripping Sammy’s underwear off as the other pulls down his pants and forces himself inside Sammy.
I want to die here and now. Eyes closed again, I listen to Sammy’s cries of pain. It’s unbearable. I struggle against my chains but cannot get away.
Sammy is whimpering now.
“Please let him go!” I say, knowing how helpless I am.
The officer moans, pauses a moment, then pulls out, dripping semen on Sammy’s back.
“Fuck you! Fuck you all!” I scream in rage and frustration.
The officers then turn their attention to me, punching and kicking until I no longer feel any pain. It seems to go on forever.
While Shams is cooking dinner in the kitchen, I am back in my bedroom, after having reassured Mohammed that Ramy would return home safely. I am staring at myself in the mirror when Gabriel appears again, fluttering near the ceiling.
“What have you done to anger Abaddon?” he asks me.
“I took your advice.”
“Oh? And what was that?”
“To be true to myself. Now come down here.” I reach my arm out to him. Gabriel alights on it, and I hold him tight, kissing him gently on the lips. When I open my eyes, he has transformed into the same handsome young man who visited me before. I turn around, and he kisses my back as he enters me. I feel as if I’m being born. He gives me everything that I need, and I feel complete.
The officers leave our cell. I hope they burn in hell for all eternity. I look at Sammy. He turns away, broken. Through my tears, I say, “Sammy, it’s okay, it’s okay,” but I know it isn’t.
They say that everyone in the world is free to love whomever they want. But I tell these people to read my history—and no, I don’t want them to cry for me. I tell you that, in Iraq, love is a lie, muddled by religion and tradition and custom.
Do Mohammed and Noor believe that I’m in love with Jameela? Will that keep them happy? I have no love for her. Many Iraqi men have to live with such lies. I’m not the first nor will I be the last homosexual in Iraq.
True love will fight everything that stands in its way. Although my love for Sammy has been put to a test, and he once turned against me, I will never give up on him. I will fight to the very end. I raise my arms and pray to God: You created the world in seven days, but it took me all my life to ask you this, You, whom I believe in no matter what; You, who created those who made me; You, who give life and take it away, I have one question to ask: Why is it wrong to fall in love with a man?
God, I am your creation and yours alone. Since the day I was born, I knew I was not the Iraqi that everyone else tries to be. I am a homosexual, and I can’t change that. God, my love for You is strong, but everyone has stood against me. I know You love me and love everyone like me, despite what they say. Please help me and Sammy. Please give us light. Please let us be free.
Bismillah Al Rahman Al Raheem. I am seated again at my wife’s dressing table. I pick up the pink lipstick she surprised me with not long ago and smear some onto my lips, admiring myself in the mirror. But then I hear the call for prayer from a distance: “Allahu-Akbar … Allahu-Akbar.” I am the sheikh in pink.
I look at Sammy again. He turns to face me, and I see the streaks of tears running down his face. I want to see his smile. I want to hold his hand.
“Sammy,” I say. “Talk to me.”
He continues to weep silently.
Suddenly the door bursts open and the two officers enter again.
“Lotees!” they yell. “Lotees!” The word echoes in my ears. They unchain Sammy and pull him away.
“Wait! Wait! Where you taking him? Please, come back! Come back! Sammy!” But no one is listening.
Mino hatha al helw? Who is this person? As I continue to stare at myself in the mirror, I have a revelation. I go toward my night table and retrieve the trimmer that I sometimes use. I turn it on and begin to remove all my facial hair. I am about halfway done when Shams knocks on the door. “Ammar, why is the door locked?” she asks.
“I need some time alone here,” I say. “Can you please come back later?”
When I hear her walk away, I continue to shave.
I sit in the darkness, crying, praying for Sammy. Images of his debasement haunt me. The cell door opens, and one of the officers walks in. He places a large tray covered with a cloth on the floor.
I’m not hungry. “Where is Sammy?” I plead. He leaves without a reply.
I look up at the ceiling; Gabriel is fluttering in a corner.
“Where is Sammy?” I beseech him.
He doesn’t answer either.
When I’m done, I look at myself in the mirror again. Bare-faced with a slash of pink across my lips. Abaddon appears, and I smile at her. “Look at me,” I taunt.
She spits at me. “You’re disgusting,” she says. “You are going to burn in Hell. You deserted Allah and your family for this?”
“I was living a lie,” I say. “I just didn’t know it.”
I keep calling out for Sammy, but no one hears. My stomach is churning. Perhaps if I eat something? I remove the cloth from the tray. I recoil in horror when I see Sammy’s bloody head. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,” I scream but cannot hear myself.
I grab the cloth and throw it back over the tray. I have lost everything. First Ali, and now Sammy. How can I fight this, how can I ever go home?
The cell door opens, and the officers come in. “We’re letting you go,” one says as he stands over me menacingly. “If you tell anyone about this, we’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
“No, kill me now!” I beg. “Do it! Just get it over with.”
“That’s too easy,” he says, laughing.
“But why did you kill Sammy?”
The other officer laughs. “Why not?”
Then they blindfold me, drag me out of the cell, and toss me into the back seat of a car. After what seems like an hour of driving, they throw me out onto the side of the road. I try to wriggle around to remove the blindfold, but my hands are tied behind my back. It’s impossible.
After what feels like hours, I hear footsteps approach. “Son, are you all right?” a voice says.
“Help me,” I say. “Please, help me.”
Within moments, my hands are free and the blindfold removed. I thank him over and over. But when he asks me what happened, I turn around and walk away. I cannot say the words. Instead, I look up and stare at the majestic, immortal moon.
Yet another knock at the door disturbs me. Shams says, “Ammar, that young man is here to see you. I think you should come quickly.”
In the living room, Shams looks surprised when she sees that I have shaved. Jaffar stares silently at me. I look away from them and am shocked when I see Ramy, who is seated on the couch, bruised and bloodied.
“Ramy, what happened?”
“I’ll do whatever they want me to do,” he says forlornly. “I’ll marry Jameela. I’ll do anything.”
“But tell me what happened to you!” I turn to Shams and Jaffar.
“Please leave us alone,” I implore. When they are gone, I sit down and put my arm around Ramy. “I can see that something terrible has happened. This is no time to make rash decisions.”
“But I must marry Jameela. There’s nothing else left.”
I realize he’s probably right. I have lived my life as a lie and, as much as I’d like to, I can see no other choice for him. “Surely there’s something …”
“No. I will marry Jameela and try to be happy.” He starts to sob uncontrollably. I try to comfort him, but it’s no use.
I stand in the kitchen doorway, aware that I haven’t cleaned the blood from my face. Mohammed is helping Noor cook dinner. She gasps when she sees me.
“Ramy! What happened to you?” she says. Mohammed stares at me; he doesn’t ask any questions. He comes toward me and embraces me. I feel the dampness of his tears on my cheek. The hurt begins to dissipate.
A week later, I find out that somehow, miraculously, I’ve passed my mathematics exam. Even though it is against my wishes, soon I graduate and receive my degree. During the ceremony, we hear an enormous thudding sound from somewhere in the distance. A building a few blocks away has been bombed. Who knows who is to blame. Just living, just going about our everyday business, is like playing Russian roulette here. Today, death has chosen someone else, not me.
The day I have dreaded has arrived. The sounds of happy voices and music are all around me. People are clapping and laughing. It is a wonderful day for Mohammed and Noor, for Jameela’s parents.
As people dance, celebrating our wedding, I am seated next to my bride, feeling numb. Mohammed approaches me. “Can I have a word with you in private?” he asks. I nod and excuse myself from Jameela.
Once alone, Mohammed puts his arm around me. “I just want to say how happy I am now that you’re finally married. I promised our father that I would see this happen, and now I’ve kept my promise. I’m sure you’ll make a fine husband and a great father. I’m sure of that, Ramy.” He has a contented grin on his face.
“Do you love me, Mohammed?” I ask.
