by Monia Mazigh
Fadi was increasingly withdrawing into a world of his own. Obsessed with his work, he paid no heed to his growing daughter, took nothing from those unforgettable years. Whenever Emma tried to talk to him about it, he got angry and flew into an odd rage, almost like madness. He justified himself by saying that he loved his daughter and no one was going to tell him how to feel. His arrogance grew. So disdainfully did he look down on everything and everyone that he never saw disaster lying in wait at his feet. Without realizing it, he had burned all his bridges: to his family, to his friends, and the last bridge, the one that connected him to his better self. He’d become vulnerable to the blows of life. He was at the mercy of the laws of the marketplace. Tragedy would not strike slowly.
When the high-tech bubble burst, there was no concealing the hard truth; layoffs quickly followed. They spared no one, from technicians to highly qualified engineers, from top management to clerical employees. Lean years followed hard on the heels of the high-living days when everyone in the high-tech sector dreamed of hitting the jackpot, of becoming a millionaire. Fadi had nurtured the illusion day and night — it became his objective, and he lived for it alone. Then, abruptly, Fadi the invincible, the high and mighty, saw his dreams crumble, disintegrate, and collapse in a cloud of dust. The fall was brutal, the noise deafening.
Emma tried to console him. She told him he would find another job and that they could get by on her salary. They had their daughter to think about. Maybe it had been a sign from God that they should rethink their priorities. But the rot had gone too deep. Fadi retreated into a stern and icy silence, broken only by outbursts of violent anger against Emma.
Their life became unbearable. Every day Emma felt more and more humiliated. There was no end to the psychological abuse. She could no longer work and no longer knew which way to turn. One day she picked up Sara from school and sought refuge at a women’s shelter. There she filed for divorce.
11
Daddy dearest,
These days I’m writing my quarterly exams! Really tearing my hair out! But my courses are great. For sure I made the right choice when I registered for business administration. By the way, when will you be coming? Do try to find a way to drop off here, please; we haven’t seen you since last summer. My childhood girlfriend Dina — you know, the tomboy — well, she went and got married! Unbelievable but true, I swear! We all attended the wedding. No big deal finally, everything went according to plan. In any event, nothing surprises me anymore, ever since Dina dropped everything to get married. Here the weather is starting to turn cold. It hasn’t snowed yet, but any day now, I’m sure of it. I can’t stand the heat in Dubai but I think I’m a bit jealous of you; these long, interminable winters of ours are starting to affect my system.
Looks like you’re not quite as excited as before about the project we discussed over the phone. Are you still working at it or did you decide to let it drop? Lynne and Mona are fine. They say they’re doing well at school and promised to write you soon, but I’m not so sure. I’d better remind them of their promise just in case . . .
Phew! These days we’re not seeing as much of Leila as we used to. Maybe Mommy has decided to keep her at a distance. I hope so. I don’t like her constant preaching. I think Mommy is getting tired of those morning get-togethers of hers. Her heart just isn’t in it anymore.
How is your partner? Still the same old dim-witted ingrate? I can’t see why you don’t move here, there are so many business opportunities. I could give you a hand, and we’d be all together.
Waiting impatiently for your answer,
Your dear daughter,
Lama
Lama wrote to her father with pen on paper. Even with computers and email, she felt the need to communicate with him that way. She could always find a quiet time, an empty hour or even a few moments during a busy day, to write her father a letter. A letter full of small talk and chit-chat in which she kept him up-to-date on her life.
Her two sisters, Lynne and Mona, made fun of her: “You’re a throwback to the olden days. Why don’t you use papyrus or a quill pen?” But Lama paid no heed; she loved writing to her father, even if everyone else found it faintly ridiculous. Besides, wasn’t she the black sheep of the family, the ugly duckling? To her mother and her sisters she was bizarre, rebellious, a troublemaker, too old-fashioned in her ways, too much of a hippie for their tastes, too open, but not up-to-date enough to send her father a simple email.
Lama had long since made up her mind to ignore their carping. At first there were arguments, spats, and snide remarks, but she was determined to demonstrate how wrong her mother and sisters were. It was like an ongoing game, one in which she was determined to score enough points to win and prove how superior her point of view was. But over the past few weeks she’d changed her tactics. It wasn’t premeditated; it all happened naturally, on its own. A curious silence had settled in and Lama no longer needed to win those tiny daily battles. She listened, but the impulse she’d had to answer back was no longer there. At last she stopped seeing her presence as a thorn in the family’s side. Instead she sought peace at any price.
Lama was walking down the hall towards the main library. Her abundant, curly hair fell about her shoulders. She was about to pick up the pace when her eye caught a small poster taped to the wall: THE MUSLIM STUDENTS ASSOCIATION INVITES YOU TO JOIN AND PARTICIPATE IN IMPROVING LIFE FOR STUDENTS. COME VISIT US IN ROOM . . .
Lama jotted down the room number and continued on her way. She wasn’t religious to the point of neglecting herself, but she was religious enough not to forget who she was, as she liked to put it. She was curious to find out about other Muslim students like herself, to share ideas, to participate in cultural events, even to put a little distance between herself and her mother and her friends.
For her, university was a golden opportunity to fly with her own wings, to find her way in the world, far from her mother’s traditional views and far from the superficiality of her sisters and their entourage. She was determined to live life on her terms, not to let herself be trapped like Dina. She sped up; the library was not far off. The thought of Dina made her shiver. But no sooner had she sat down in front of a computer to begin work on her research project than she forgot all about Dina’s story and plunged into her subject.
12
Fawzia Hussein was a simple woman, but there was nothing simple-minded about her. Ever since her daughter had thrown herself, body and soul, into religion, she had become sad and melancholy. Before, she would spend much of the day cooking spicy, savoury meals for her little family, and she would always send a nicely garnished portion to one of her neighbours. When she wasn’t in the kitchen, she was in the sewing room, where she turned out tunics and trousers cut from the choicest fabrics in eye-pleasing colours. With the radio-
cassette player at her elbow playing an Indo-Pakistani melody, she would nod in time to the music. Her friends brought her fabrics whenever they returned from trips to their home villages. They would drop by to ask her to sew this or that dress or ensemble. Sewing was Fawzia’s passion: she loved seeing a lifeless piece of fabric transformed in her hands into a nicely fitted tunic or a pretty pair of baggy trousers that were tight about the ankles.
But now Sally left her no room for happiness, for her small daily pleasures. Her daughter’s metamorphosis had cast a pall over everything she held dear; it had confiscated her right to dream and ripped open the fragile wrapping she’d enveloped herself in since her arrival in Canada. Fawzia could not resume her daily routine without thinking of Sally. At first she could not even look at her daughter clad in black from head to toe, walking down the street like a ghost. But it was Sally’s attitude that disturbed her most of all. A kind of scorn, an expression of superiority on her face became more visible with every passing day. Her loving daughter, whom she had called the rose of her garden, had become a black spot, a discordant voice that sang out of tune in their household.
Fawzia was a pious woman who prayed and fasted. She was always ready to lend a hand to newly arrived immigrants. But was the Islam she practised any different from — or not as good as — the Islam Sally had recently discovered? She didn’t read articles on the Internet the way her daughter did, of course. She had no idea what the ulema were saying on a whole variety of subjects. She continued to speak broken English with her neighbours, but everybody liked her, and no one had ever criticized her for being a bad Muslim — no one except Sally. Her daughter never missed a chance to point out that her headscarf had fallen to her shoulders or that her hair was showing or that she should raise her hands up to her ears to begin the prayer.
Sally made her comments with a coldness that tied her mother’s stomach in knots. Is this really the daughter I raised? Is this the same Sally who wrapped her little arms around me and twirled and spun in front of me to show off her dress? she wondered, with brimming eyes. But last night, when she went to wish her daughter goodnight, Fawzia thought she’d caught a glimpse of the old sparkle. A wise, patient woman, she said nothing and asked no questions of her daughter. But before turning in, she prayed fervently, Dear Lord, bring my Sally, my missing daughter, back to me . . .
That night Sally could not sleep. She left her BlackBerry on the bedside table. It was all she could do not to reread the poem The Boy Next Door had sent her. Hadn’t she promised that she wouldn’t even think about it, would never reread those hellish words that had thrown her soul into an uproar and had transformed her into a non-believer? They weren’t obscene words or even vulgar words, but when she heard them issuing from her mouth, she felt like a little girl caught stealing chocolate cookies by her mother. She felt so guilty that sleep was impossible.
Ever since discovering the straight path, Sally had spared no effort to study her religion and to learn the right way to pray. She divided her time between her courses and spiritual readings. She told herself she had no time to lose. This life was worthless — she must do everything to save her soul and those of her poor parents before Judgement Day. The articles she read gave her a strength she had never believed she possessed. No longer the spoiled little girl who got everything she wanted, she intended to prove to everyone how strong she was. Her decision to cover her face was only the first step. It would set her apart from the other girls, the ones who styled themselves Muslims but who were, in reality, sell-outs to the worlds of fashion and advertising.
Her way of dressing was her way of self-affirmation. Her fascination with technology was a divine blessing, a gift from God that opened wide the doors of knowledge. Within the winding corridors of the Internet she’d been able to return to her roots, to rediscover true Islam. Not the Islam of the defeatists and the hypocrites, but an Islam that was unadulterated, rigorous. Not the Islam of political calculation and intrigue, but that of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, and his closest companions. Not the Islam of compromise that some ulema were trying to make people swallow, but a pure and intransigent Islam that would make not one single concession to softness. That poem had disturbed her best-laid plans.
Who was The Boy Next Door? What did he want? Should she ignore him or answer him? Would it be a sin to answer on her BlackBerry? She’d never seen a legal opinion on the subject. But wasn’t the whole thing virtual in any event? The Boy Next Door couldn’t see her, couldn’t hear her voice. Would it do any harm? Would it be undermining one of the pillars of Islam if she were to answer him?
What if he was obsessed with sex, or a mental case? Sally shook her head. It couldn’t be. Eloquent and intelligent words like those could not be the work of a low or evil mind. With a deliberate movement, she picked up her BlackBerry and removed it from its pink case, then scrolled through her inbox. She wanted to reread his words — perhaps she would discover a secret meaning. To her astonishment, up popped a new message from The Boy Next Door.
I call out to you, you flee.
Do not look far,
You’re close to me.
Sally stopped in her tracks. It was impossible to go on. She felt queasy. She had to delete the message and forget the whole thing. But something held her back and she did nothing of the kind. She whispered a prayer, turned off the device, placed it back on her bedside table, and attempted to sleep.
13
Louise looked downright ridiculous in the new prayer outfit she’d bought at the Arab convenience store down the street, the one that sold halal meat and Middle Eastern spices but had recently begun to sell headscarves imported from Turkey and inexpensive prayer garments from the United Arab Emirates. It consisted of a long skirt, with an elasticized waistband, that came down to her ankles, and a large scarf with a hole in the middle that fitted over the face while the rest of the fabric covered her shoulders, arms, and midsection.
She was standing in the living room on the tiny silk carpet her mother had bought last year to bring herself “some pleasure after all the years of hard work,” as she never tired of repeating. Louise knelt, forehead touching the floor, then got to her feet and bent over, her hands resting on her knees, then put her forehead to the floor once more, her mouth silently forming the words of the prayer. Her mother’s sudden entry into the room released a bolt of tension. Pretending to be engrossed, Louise kept praying, but for all her efforts, her head began to spin.
Alice Gendron, lost in her memories and breathing heavily after climbing the stairs, began to seethe with anger at the sight of her daughter, dressed like a beggar, her eyes lowered in concentration, toes aligned on the handsome Persian carpet she’d worked so hard to buy. She wanted to explode in fury, to vomit up the words that seemed trapped in her throat, to free herself of the stress that had been building over the past weeks. She wanted to make a scene, to show Louise how much she was suffering deep down and how betrayed she felt. But she swallowed her hurt and rushed off to the refuge of her bedroom. It was strange — she simply didn’t have the strength to force a confrontation.
Louise no longer knew what she was saying as she mechanically recited the words she’d memorized from the little book her friend Ameur had lent her. Her mother’s unexpected appearance had had the effect of a volcanic eruption. Everything turned upside down in her mind; she didn’t know whether to keep praying or to stop. The words to the prayers that she’d repeated so often and learned so well were swept away, as by a desert wind.
Louise was not afraid of her mother. She loved her, respected her, and was inspired by her, by the strength of her character and her willpower. She shared her hopes and fears, but she had never been afraid of her. Her mother was her best friend, the sister she’d never had, her missing father, everything. But ever since Louise had spoken openly of her wish to become a Muslim, things had changed. Alice no longer spoke to her as she once had. In fact, she was constantly angry at her, she of all people, who rarely judged anyone, even telling her, “Ever since you met that guy Ameur and his Muslim Students Association you’ve stopped thinking for yourself.”
Her words hit Louise like poisoned darts piercing flesh. She would never have dreamed that her mother would speak to her that way, or that she would accuse her daughter of losing her discernment and her good judgement. This was the woman who had trained her almost from infancy to ask questions, to criticize, to take nothing for granted. This was the mother who had told her, time and time again, not to judge others before she knew them.
Louise had always applied those principles, and they had served her well. Her relations with her mother were calm, tender; the two were meant for each other, and no obstacle came between them, no cloud had ever darkened their clear blue sky. But since she had come to know Ameur and the other Muslim students, Louise and Alice were like strangers under the same roof. Louise spoke more and more of religion, and Alice felt increasingly ill at ease with every passing day.
It wasn’t simply that Alice felt her past and all its unhappiness raising its ugly head. Rather it was the siniste
r, surreptitious invasion she sensed in the religion her daughter had accepted. Louise wanted to share with her mother what she had learned about Islam, but every day Alice withdrew further into her protective shell. She was certain that her daughter’s curiosity would soon evaporate, that it was a flash in the pan. To her it was a passing identity crisis, a little like the young people of her own generation’s fascination with communism: a passionate but ephemeral flirtation.
But for Louise it was a combination of love and faith. The attraction she felt for Ameur and for his words, and the way he lowered his gaze timidly when he spoke to her — it was a search for her missing father, for her missing faith, for a passion for the divine, for all that she had never experienced, never felt. Her mother had always given her the right to choose, but this time it was different. Now she wanted to pluck the fruit that had been forbidden to her. Louise found herself up against a wall that she was not even allowed to touch.
Alice had waited patiently for things to calm down, for her daughter to return naturally to the right path. But instead, things took a turn for the worse. The pot was about to overflow. Louise had become a Muslim, a practising believer — exactly what Alice loathed most in this world.
When she’d finished her prayer, Louise touched her forehead to her mother’s beautiful Persian carpet and whispered, “Help me, dear God. Give me strength and courage and soften my mother’s heart.” Then she stood up, removed her prayer garment, folded it up, and went to place it in her wardrobe.
Her mother had seen her praying. The two women kept a wary eye on one another like two hens, each in her corner of the room, ready to attack. But neither dared to confront the other. Louise did not know if her mother would continue to tolerate her presence. Alice looked on as her daughter sunk deeper and deeper, day by day, into that foreign religion of hers. Without saying a word, the two expected the worst. Louise’s love for her mother tormented her, and so did her new life as a Muslim. Alice was torn between maternal love and her personal convictions. The two suffered in silence. And they waited, watchful.
