Burned alive: a victim of the law of men

by Souad; Marie-Thérèse Cuny

  I didn’t see these men walk through the village with their sister’s head, I only heard the story from my mother. I was already mature enough to understand but I wasn’t afraid, perhaps because I hadn’t seen anything myself. It seemed to me that in my family nobody was charmuta, that these things weren’t happening to me. This woman had been punished for her violation of the rules, this was normal. It was certainly more normal than a girl my age being crushed to death on the road.

  I didn’t realize that simple gossip based on the neighbors’ assumptions, or lies even, could turn any woman into a charmuta and lead to her death, for the sake of the honor of the others. It is what is called a crime of honor, Jamirat el Sharaf, and for the men of my region it is not considered a crime.

  The Bride’s Blood

  Hussein’s parents came to ask for Noura and they returned to discuss it several times. In our land, a girl is sold into marriage for gold. So Hussein’s parents brought the gold, which they displayed in a pretty gilded dish, and Hussein’s father said: “There, half for Adnan the father, and the other half for his daughter Noura.”

  If there isn’t enough gold, you go on negotiating. The two shares are important because on the day of the wedding the girl is supposed to show everyone how much gold was given to her father in exchange for his daughter.

  It is not for Noura, this heavy gold she will carry the day of her marriage. The number of bracelets, the necklace, the diadem, she needs them for her parents’ honor and her own. It is terribly shameful for a girl and her family if she has no jewelry on her wedding day. My father forgot to mention this when he told his daughters that they weren’t worth what you get for a sheep. When he sells his daughter, he is owed half the gold! And he can bargain.

  This goes on without us, being just between the parents. When the business is concluded, there is no paper to sign; it is the men’s word that counts. Only the men’s. The women, my mother, Hussein’s mother, have no more right to speak than the future bride. No one else in the family has seen the gold yet, but we all know the marriage has been agreed to because Hussein’s family has come to us. But we, the females of the family, must keep to ourselves, out of sight, causing no disturbance of the men’s negotiations.

  My sister Noura knows a man has come into the house with his parents, so she surely will be married. She is very pleased. She tells me she wants to be able to dress better, pluck her eyebrows, have a family of her own and children. Noura has a pretty face and is timid. She is anxious while the fathers discuss, she would like to know how much gold the family has brought, she prays they will come to an agreement. She doesn’t know what her future husband looks like, or how old he is, and she will not ask about these things. It is shameful to ask such questions, even for me who could hide somewhere to see what he looks like. Maybe she’s afraid that I’ll go and say something to our parents. A few days later, my father summons Noura in my mother’s presence and tells her she’s going to be married on such and such a day. I wasn’t there to hear this because I didn’t have the right to be with them.

  I shouldn’t even say I didn’t have the right, because rights do not even exist. There are customs. This is the way it is and that is all. If your father points to a corner of the room and tells you to stay in that corner the rest of your life, you won’t move from there until you die. If your father places an olive in a plate and tells you that today that’s all you’ll have to eat, you eat only that olive. It is very difficult to get out of this skin of consenting slave. You’re born into it as a female. For all of your childhood, this nonexistence, this obedience to the man and his law, is perpetuated by the father, the mother, the brother, and by the husband once you yourself are married.

  When my sister Noura reached this much-hoped-for status, I guess she must have been at least fifteen years old. But maybe I’m mistaken, maybe far off, because as I reflect and try to bring order to my memories, I’ve realized that my life then had none of the personal landmarks that people in Europe have. No birthday, no photographs; it’s more like the life of a small animal that eats, works as fast as possible, sleeps, and is beaten. You know that you are “mature” when you’re in danger of drawing down the wrath of society at the least false step. And at this “mature” age, marriage is the next step. Normally, a girl is mature at the age of ten and is married between fourteen and seventeen at the latest. Noura must be approaching the limit.

  The family has begun to prepare for the marriage, to alert the neighbors. As the house is not very large, they are going to rent the common courtyard for the reception. It’s a very attractive place, a sort of flowering garden where there are grapevines and room for dancing. There is a covered veranda that provides shade and will shelter the bride.

  My father picked out the sheep. The youngest lamb is always chosen because the meat is tender and doesn’t need to be cooked a long time. If the meat has to cook a long time they say the father is not very well off, that he has picked an old sheep and has not fed his guests well. His reputation in the village will suffer, and his daughter’s worse yet. So it is my father who chooses the lamb. He goes into the stable, gets hold of the one he has selected, and drags it into the garden. He ties its hooves to keep it from moving, takes a knife, and with a single stroke cuts its throat. Then he takes the head and twists it a little over a large dish to make the blood flow. I watch this flowing blood with vague disgust. The lamb’s legs are still moving. When my father’s task is done, the women come to take care of the meat. They boil water for cleaning the inside of the sheep. The intestines aren’t eaten but they’re used for something because they’re carefully laid aside. Then the animal has to be skinned, and it’s my mother who takes care of this delicate task. The skin cannot be damaged; it must remain intact. The sheep is now on the ground, emptied and clean. With her big knife, my mother separates the skin from the meat. She cuts right at the skin and pulls it away with a precise movement. The skin comes away gradually until the entire hide is separated from the body. She will let it dry and will either sell it or keep it. Most of the skins from our sheep are sold. But people don’t think much of you if you bring a single sheepskin to the market; you need to bring several to show that you are rich.

  At nightfall on this day before the wedding, after the sheep, my mother works on my sister. She takes an old pan, a lemon, a little olive oil, an egg yolk, and some sugar. She dissolves and mixes all of this in the pan and closes herself up in a room with Noura. She is going to remove all of Noura’s pubic hair with this preparation. Absolutely every single hair of the genital area must be removed. It must all be bare and clean. My mother says that if by chance you forget a single hair, the man will leave without even looking at his wife and will say she is dirty!

  Hair on certain parts of women’s bodies is thought of as dirty and I can’t stop thinking about this. We don’t remove hair from our legs or our underarms, only from the vulva. And also the eyebrows, but to make ourselves more attractive. When hair begins to appear on a girl it is the first sign, with her breasts, that she is becoming a woman. And she will die with her hair, since we will be taken back just as we have been created. And yet all the girls are proud of the idea of having their pubic hair removed. It is the proof that they will belong to a man other than their father. Without hair you really become someone. It seems to me it’s more a punishment than anything else because I hear my sister yelling. When she comes out of the room a little crowd of women who were waiting behind the door tap their palms and make their ululations. There is great joy: My sister is ready for her marriage, the famous sacrifice of her virginity. After this session, she can go to sleep. The women return to their houses now that they have seen her and verified that everything has gone according to the rules.

  At sunrise the next day, the food is prepared in the courtyard. Everyone must see the food being prepared and count the number of dishes. And especially you can’t afford to spoil the preparation of a single handful of rice or the whole village will be talking about it. Ha
lf the courtyard is given over to the food. There is meat, couscous, vegetables, rice, chickens, and many sweets, cakes that my mother has made with the neighbors’ help, because she would never be able to do all this by herself. When the dishes have been displayed for everyone to see, my mother goes with another woman to prepare my sister. The dress is ankle-length and embroidered in front, with cloth buttons. Noura is magnificent when she comes out of the room, covered with gold, beautiful as a flower. She has bracelets, necklaces, and especially, what counts for more than anything for a bride, a diadem! It is made of a ribbon of pieces of gold. Her loose hair has been rubbed with olive oil to make it shine. They will place her on her throne, which is a chair that has been covered with a white cloth and placed on top of a table. Noura is to get up there, where she will sit and be admired by everyone before the arrival of her future husband. All the women jostle each other to get into the courtyard to view the bride, all the while making their ululations.

  And the men dance outside. They don’t mingle with the women in the courtyard. We’re not even allowed to be at the window to watch their dancing. The groom now makes his entrance. The fiancée shyly lowers her head. She is not yet permitted to look at him. This will be the first time she will see what he looks like. I suppose my mother has given her some idea of his appearance, something about his family, his job, his age. But maybe not, maybe all they told her was that his parents brought the right amount of gold.

  My mother places a veil on my sister’s head. He arrives like a prince, well dressed. He approaches her. Noura keeps her head down under the veil and her hands demurely on her knees to demonstrate her good upbringing. This moment is supposed to represent the essential purpose of my sister’s life. I watch with the others, and I envy her. I have always been envious of the eldest, of being able to go everywhere with my mother, while I slogged away in the stable with Kainat. I envy her being the first to leave the house. Every girl would like to be in the bride’s place on this day, in a beautiful white dress, covered with gold. Noura is so beautiful. My only disappointment is that she is not wearing shoes. I think it is miserable to be barefoot. I have seen women in the street, going to the market, wearing shoes. Perhaps because the men always wear them, shoes are for me the symbol of freedom. To be able to walk without pebbles and thorns tearing my feet. Noura is barefoot and Hussein is wearing very beautiful polished shoes, which fascinate me.

  Hussein comes toward my sister. On the high table, they have installed another chair for him and covered it with a white cloth. He sits down, raises the white veil, and the ululations resonate in the courtyard. The ceremony is finished. The man has just discovered the face of the woman who has remained pure for him and will give him sons. They remain there, both seated like mannequins. All the others dance, sing, eat, but they don’t move. They are brought something to eat and someone covers them with white towels so they don’t soil their beautiful clothes. The husband doesn’t touch his wife, doesn’t kiss her, doesn’t take her hand. Nothing is exchanged between them, no gesture of love or tenderness. They are a fixed image of marriage and they sit there like this for a long time.

  I don’t know anything about this man, his age, if he has brothers or sisters, what he works at, and where he lives with his parents. But he is from the same village. You don’t go looking for a woman anywhere but your own village. It’s the first time that I, too, have seen this man. We didn’t know if he was handsome or ugly, short, tall, fat, blind, awkward, with a twisted mouth, if he had a big nose, or even if he had ears. Hussein is a very attractive man. He is not very tall, he has short curly hair, his face is dark, tanned, a short, rather flat nose with broad nostrils, and he looks well fed. He is good looking. He walks proudly and, at first glance, he doesn’t look mean but perhaps he is. I feel it. Now and then, he speaks nervously.

  To make it clear that the celebration is ending and the guests are expected to leave, the women sing directly to the husband something that goes like this: “Protect me now. If you don’t protect me, you are not a man . . .” And the last obligatory song: “We are not leaving here until you dance.” The two of them must dance to conclude the ceremony. The husband helps his wife down—this time he touches her with his finger, she belongs to him now—and they dance together. Some couples don’t dance because they are shy. My sister danced well with her husband and it was magnificent for the village.

  The husband takes his wife home to his house. It is already nightfall. His father has given him a house; without it he is not a man. Hussein’s house is in the village, not very far from my parents’ house. The two of them go off on foot alone. We cry as we watch them go. Even my brother is in tears. We weep because she has left us, we weep because we don’t know what will happen to her if she’s not a virgin for her husband. We are anxious. We will have to wait for the moment when the husband will display the white linen from the balcony or attach it to the window at daybreak so the people can verify officially the presence of the bride’s blood. This linen must be visible to everyone, and as many people as possible from the village should come to see it. It is not enough if there are only two or three witnesses. The proof could be contested, you never know.

  I remember their house, their courtyard. There was a stone and cement wall around it. Everyone was standing there waiting. All of a sudden my brother-in-law came out with the linen, and that set off the ululations. The men whistle, the women sing, clap their hands, because he has presented the linen. It is a special linen that is placed on the bed for the first night. Hussein tacks it up on the balcony with white clothespins on each side. The wedding is all in white, the pins are white. The blood is red. Hussein acknowledges the crowd with a wave of his hand and goes back in. This is a victory.

  The sheep’s blood, the blood of the virgin woman, always blood. I remember that on every Eid, my father would kill a sheep. The blood would fill a basin, and he would dip a rag in it for painting the entrance door and the tiled floor. To get inside, you had to pass through this door painted in blood. It made me sick. Everything he killed made me sick with fear. When I was a child, I was forced, like the other children, to watch my father kill chickens, rabbits, sheep. My sister and I were convinced he could twist our necks just like a chicken’s, drain our blood like the sheep’s. The first time I was so terrorized that I hid between my mother’s legs so I wouldn’t see it, but she made me look. She wanted me to know how my father killed so I would be part of the family, so I wouldn’t be afraid. I was always afraid anyway, because the blood represented my father.

  The day after the wedding, along with everyone else, I looked at my sister’s blood on the white linen. My mother was weeping, and so was I. We cry a lot on this occasion because we want to show our joy and salute the honor of the father who has kept the bride a virgin. And we cry also with relief, for Noura has passed the great test. The only test of her life, except for proving she can produce a son. I hope for the same thing for myself, it’s expected. And I’m very happy that she’s married, and now it will soon be my turn. It is strange, but at this moment I don’t even think about Kainat, as if my sister who is older than me by a year doesn’t count. But she has to be married before I can be!

  And then the guests go home. We have to dismantle the courtyard. It’s the job of the bride’s family to wash the serving dishes, clean the courtyard, and there is much to do. Sometimes the neighbor women come to give a hand, but not always.

  After her marriage, Noura doesn’t come much to the house. She has no reason to go out, because she has to take care of her family. But a short time after the wedding, less than a month in any case, she came back to our house, crying and complaining to Mama. Since I couldn’t ask what had happened, I spied on them from the top of the stairs. Noura showed her bruises. Hussein had struck her so hard that she had bruises on her face, too. She lowered her pants to show her violet thighs, and my mother wept. He must have dragged her on the ground by her hair, all the men do that. But I didn’t find out why he had beaten her. Someti
mes it’s enough if the young bride doesn’t know how to cook very well, she forgets the salt, there is no sauce because she forgot to add a little water . . . that’s reason enough for a beating. It was my mother Noura complained to, because my father is too violent; he would have sent her back without listening to her. Mama listened to her but didn’t console her. She said to her: “He’s your husband. It’s not serious. You’re going to go home.”

  And Noura went back. Beaten as she was. She returned to her husband who had “corrected” her by beating her with a stick.

  There was no choice. Even if he strangled us, there was no choice. Seeing my sister in this condition, I might have felt that marriage was good for nothing more than to be beaten as before. But even at the thought of being beaten, I wanted more than anything in the world to be married. It’s a curious thing the destiny of Arab women, in my village in any case. We accept it as natural. No thought of rebelling ever occurs to us. We don’t even know what it would mean to revolt. We know how to cry, hide, lie if needed to avoid the stick, but to rebel, never. Quite simply because there’s no other place for us to live than in the house of our father or husband. Living alone is inconceivable.