His Other Wife

by Umm Zakiyyah

  “But Aliyah, what does that have to do with calling him back?” Salima said. “He’s your colleague and department head. You’re going to have to talk to him sometimes. So I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “I just don’t want him to think I’m a tease or anything.”

  “A tease?” Salima said, humored disbelief in her voice. “What in the world would make you think something like that?”

  “Larry said if I call men I don’t intend to marry, then I’m a tease.”

  “Larry, Jacob’s brother?” Salima said, surprise in her voice.

  “You know him?” Aliyah said.

  “I wouldn’t say I know him…” Salima said in an apparent effort to sound diplomatic. “But he plays basketball with Jamil sometimes.”

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  “That you’re a tease if you call men you don’t intend to marry?” Salima spoke as it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard.

  “Not in those words…” Aliyah said, self-conscious all of a sudden. “But that it’s wrong?”

  “If you have no reason to call,” Salima said. “But if you have a reason to call, then there’s nothing wrong with it.”

  There was a thoughtful pause. “Does Larry want to marry you or something?” Salima said, as if a thought had come to her just then.

  “He asked,” Aliyah said tentatively. “But I said no.”

  Salima chuckled. “Okay, now it makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “Why you’re so confused,” Salima said. “You have no idea whether you’re coming or going.”

  Aliyah was unsure whether she should feel relieved or offended.

  “You’ve been through a lot,” Salima said. “And this situation with Jacob and Deanna, and now Larry, is making everything muddled in your mind.”

  “Well, this hasn’t been my best year…” Aliyah said, sad humor in her tone.

  “That much is obvious,” Salima said, but Aliyah sensed that she meant it kindly. “You just have to give yourself time to heal. It’s not going to happen overnight.”

  Aliyah started to respond then realized she had no idea what to say. She hadn’t expected the conversation to shift to her personal struggles.

  “I don’t mean to criticize you,” Salima said, her tone soft and apologetic. “But it’s clear you’re walking on eggshells.”

  “I really act like that?” Aliyah had hoped to sound lighthearted, but she just sounded sad.

  “When I first met you in Sister Reem’s class,” Salima said, “I knew you were one step from falling apart. And I only knew it because I had been in the same place too.”

  Aliyah felt a lump in her throat as she was overcome with sadness.

  “I don’t know what’s causing all your pain,” Salima said. “But I know you’re going to have to stop bottling it up for everyone else’s sake. One day, you’re going to have to just let go and do you.”

  “What do you mean?” Aliyah said, surprised that she found her voice. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t understand her emotional reaction.

  “First of all,” Salima said, “you’re going to have to talk to somebody. Whatever’s bothering you, you can’t keep trying to figure it out alone.”

  Aliyah coughed laughter, immediately reminded of her phone call to Larry. “Talking to someone is how I got into this mess.”

  “Not to a man,” Salima said. “And not about work,” she added. “And not about the Islamic ruling on phone calls or other meaningless stuff. Those are just distractions that keep you from focusing on what’s really wrong.”

  “How do you know all of this?” Aliyah said, embarrassed humor in her tone.

  “Once you’ve been through hell and back,” Salima said, “it’s not hard to see the fire in other people’s eyes.”

  ***

  After the phone call with Salima, Aliyah sat on her bed, gaze distant and arms folded, the cordless lying next to her. When I first met you, I knew you were one step from falling apart…

  Aliyah was the youngest Thomas girl, and her memories of childhood were relatively carefree. Her parents loosely ascribed to the “tough love” philosophy of childrearing, but other than the “You should be grateful you even have parents” mantra, Aliyah’s memories of being the middle child in the Thomas home were one of security and comfort. Alfred and Naomi encouraged their children to share their thoughts and frustrations and told them they could talk to them about anything. Perhaps that was why Aliyah had been so open about her growing interest in Islam while she was in college.

  Her uncle Benjamin was already Muslim at the time, but Aliyah had been oblivious to any serious family tension after his conversion to Islam. She was aware that her parents, as well as other family, did not approve of him leaving the church, but Aliyah was too young and naïve to really grasp what that meant. Yes, her parents and cousins and aunts and uncles gossiped about him at family gatherings and on the phone, and she heard a lot about how even members of the church felt sorry for Valerie because she was married to Benjamin.

  But none of this prepared Aliyah for what would happen to her. For one thing, her family and church members gossiped about everything. A person could be gossiping about someone then get up and go to the bathroom, and the people still sitting at the table would gossip about that person, then get back right to gossiping with her once she returned.

  So how was Aliyah supposed to know that the gossip about Benjamin “ruining” Valerie’s life by becoming Muslim was any weightier than the gossip about the preacher having an affair? If anything, in Aliyah’s mind, the latter was worse. But to Aliyah’s surprise, her family and others still went to church faithfully every Sunday, gave generously when the preacher asked, and greeted the preacher and his wife with wide smiles and friendly enthusiasm. So Aliyah had assumed her unpopular choice would be treated similarly. “No topic is off limits,” her parents would say. “Anything that you want to talk about, we’re here,” they’d say. So naturally, Aliyah confided in them about her spiritual transition.

  Then her parents refused to speak to her ever again.

  The shrilling of the cordless phone interrupted her thoughts, and Aliyah’s shoulders jerked at the sudden sound. For a fleeting moment, Aliyah thought it might be Jacob but realized it was her home phone ringing, not her mobile phone. She picked up the cordless and saw Reem’s name and mobile number on the caller identification display.

  “As-salaamu’alaikum,” Aliyah said after pressing the talk button and putting the phone to her ear. Her voice was cheerfully cordial.

  “Wa’alaiku mus-salaam.” Reem’s subdued tone made Aliyah sense that something was wrong. “I’m not going to keep you long,” Reem said.

  “It’s no problem,” Aliyah said sincerely. “I’m not busy.”

  “Well, I am,” Reem said curtly.

  Aliyah’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but she didn’t say anything.

  “From now on,” Reem said, “I won’t be giving you any private tennis lessons or Qur’an classes.”

  “Okay,” Aliyah said, surprised that she didn’t feel offended or upset. Deep down, she was actually relieved at the news. An awkward silence followed, and Aliyah sensed that Reem had expected a different response.

  “So if you want to study Qur’an,” Reem said, her voice full of emotion, “then you can come to the masjid classes like everyone else.”

  “Okay,” Aliyah said. “But I appreciate you taking the time to teach me,” she said sincerely. She didn’t want Reem to think she had taken the classes for granted. Amidst all the stress and chaos in her life, learning Qur’an was one of the few things that brought her peace of mind.

  However, Aliyah couldn’t deny that Reem’s insistence on being part of her personal life was putting a strain on their relationship. One minute Reem wanted to be the Qur’an teacher, then the next she wanted to enmesh herself in Aliyah’s personal life. But Reem had never taken a moment to ask what Aliyah wanted or needed, or if she
wanted to be friends with Reem at all. Reem just offered advice, asked personal questions, and made unilateral decisions on what Aliyah needed to know. But whenever Aliyah showed the slightest sign of having feelings and limitations of her own, Reem took offense. To Aliyah, it was a lose-lose situation. Reem would always view herself as the generous giver and Aliyah as the humble receiver, and if Aliyah stepped out of the ingratiating role that Reem had assigned her, Reem behaved as if she’d been wronged.

  “I know you’re really busy and you didn’t have to teach me,” Aliyah said, hoping to part on good terms. “So jazaakillaahukhairan.”

  “Next time someone offers to make special arrangements for you,” Reem said, her voice tight in offense, “you should be more respectful.”

  “Reem,” Aliyah said, “I apologize if anything I’ve said or done has offended you. But I really don’t understand your definition of respect. If I’ve ever disrespected you, I didn’t mean to.”

  “If?” Reem said in exasperation. “For the past few weeks, all you’ve been is disrespectful. I would’ve never imagined you would treat a Qur’an teacher like that.”

  “How did I disrespect you during Qur’an class?” Aliyah said, careful to keep her tone level.

  “I’m not talking about Qur’an class,” Reem said. “I’m talking about how you treat me.”

  “And how do I treat you?” Aliyah said, exhaustion in her tone.

  “Are you seriously going to act like you have no idea what I’m talking about?” Reem’s voice said through the receiver.

  “I’m not acting,” Aliyah said. “I really don’t recall mistreating you during our classes.”

  “I just said this isn’t about Qur’an class.”

  “But you said you would’ve never imagined I would treat a Qur’an teacher like this,” Aliyah pointed out.

  “A Qur’an teacher deserves respect in and outside of class.”

  Aliyah felt herself growing annoyed, but she struggled to keep calm. It had been Reem’s idea for them to have a relationship outside of class. How could she blame Aliyah for that? Casual relationships weren’t bound by formal rules. “Reem, if you recall,” Aliyah said, “you were the one who initiated the idea of us being friends. When you and I became friends, the rules of student and teacher no longer applied.”

  “In Islam, for certain people, there is adab that applies at all times,” Reem said in a didactic tone, referring to the rules of proper Islamic etiquette.

  “You mean like how we’re supposed to treat our elders?” Aliyah said, sarcasm in her tone.

  There was an extended silence, and Aliyah sensed that Reem had forgotten that Aliyah was a few years older than she was.

  “That’s different,” Reem said defensively. “A Qur’an teacher has a status above everyone else.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Aliyah said. “That’s why I asked you if I ever mistreated you during class. And since I haven’t, I’m confused as to why you feel I’ve disrespected you as a Qur’an teacher. You can’t mix friendship with a teacher-student status. Otherwise, I can claim you disrespected me. I’m the elder, whether we’re in class or not.”

  “I didn’t have to change my schedule around to suit you,” Reem said, ignoring Aliyah’s point. “That was a huge sacrifice for me. So you have no right to criticize my family and call us racist cultural Muslims.”

  “What?” Aliyah said, humor in her tone. “When did I call your family racist cultural Muslims?”

  “Maybe you never said it outright,” Reem said. “But that’s obviously what you meant when you said Sayed and I are wrong to require that our children marry Arabs.”

  “And what does your family marrying only Arabs have to do with your status as a Qur’an teacher?” Aliyah said defensively.

  “You know what, Aliyah?” Reem said, frustration in her tone. “I’m not going to have this conversation with you. I think you’re really arrogant and self-centered. And the only person who seems to matter to you is yourself. I used to feel bad for you, but now I see I made a big mistake. No wonder Deanna pretty much lost her mind around you. You send so many mixed messages.” Reem huffed. “The reason you don’t have any friends is because no one fits into your narrow, judgmental image of what a friend should be. So find another Qur’an teacher, and find another friend. I refuse to subject myself to your disrespect anymore.”

  The dial tone hissed in Aliyah’s ear, and she slowly set the cordless phone next her on the bed, shell-shocked as she pressed the off button.

  “Let me clarify something, Aliyah,” Reem had said when she’d convinced Aliyah to let her teach private Qur’an classes without pay. “This is not something I do for everyone. As you know, my schedule is really busy. But you’re one of my best students, mashaAllah tabaarakAllah, and I’d hate to lose you. So this is something I want to do for myself, honestly. I know you might not understand this right now, but, truthfully, it would be an honor if you allow me to teach you privately.”

  Aliyah got choked up as she recalled the conversation. O Allah, what is wrong with me? Aliyah thought in dismay. Was she really partly to blame for Deanna’s deteriorating condition? And had she really done something to deserve Reem talking to her like that? Aliyah had apologized to Reem Friday night, and Reem had said Aliyah should always feel free to express herself without apology. So what happened?

  “You don’t have to apologize,” Reem had said Friday night. “I was offended, but you didn’t say anything wrong…You had every right to say what you did. I don’t believe in micromanaging people’s pain. I went through that with my family when I was in high school, and I vowed to never do it to anyone else. So if you feel I’ve done something wrong, then say it. No matter how upset I get, we’ll get through it insha’Allah.”

  Tears welled in Aliyah’s eyes as she sat dumbfounded, her gaze staring distantly toward the framed quote on the wall. You are the author of your life story.

  What should I write? Aliyah asked herself, pensive in the realization she was getting it all wrong.

  O Allah! her heart begged. Help me write this story!

  ***

  “Yes you will,” Sayed said, raising his voice as he glared at Reem and pointed to her mobile phone that now lay on their bed.

  “No I’m not,” Reem said as she stood in front of the mirror affixed to their dresser, yanking the brush through her hair as it got caught in tangles. She couldn’t believe that, after everything that had happened, her husband had the audacity to insist that she was wrong.

  “I’m telling you as your husband,” Sayed said, speaking firmly and deliberately, “you are going to pick up that phone and apologize to Aliyah. Nothing she’s said or done deserves that. I’ve told you over and over again, you need to stop taking out your anger with Fahad on the people you love. If you knew what it meant to be a Qur’an teacher, then you would understand that the Qur’an isn’t just rules of recitation, beautiful sounds, and tafseer. It’s life, Reem. It’s life.”

  “This has nothing to do with Fahad,” Reem said flippantly, her head jerking slightly as she continued to brush her hair.

  “You might think this has nothing to do with your oldest brother,” Sayed said. “But it has everything to do with him. Do you really think it’s a coincidence that you called Aliyah right after we sat through a difficult dinner with Fahad and his family?”

  “No I don’t,” Reem said. “Yes, I was tired of Fahad, but I’m tired of Aliyah too.”

  “Why? Because she has feelings like everyone else? She doesn’t have to be your friend, Reem. It’s not a religious obligation.”

  “But I teach her Qur’an, so she should respect me.”

  “But what does respect mean, Reem?” Sayed said. “Our desire for our children to marry Saudis isn’t an Islamic rule, so she has every right to disagree with it. Take a moment and look at it from her point of view. One thing I learned from Cathy is—”

  “Do not mention her name to me,” Reem interjected, speaking over him. She was offended tha
t he would bring up the woman he almost married before he acquiesced to his family’s desire for him to marry her.

  “—that, for converts to Islam, Muslim friends are not just part-time playmates. They’re people they hope to build an ummah with. They have no Muslim family, so every friendship is one step closer to building a future for themselves and their children.”

  “Then they need to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around their idea of a perfect ummah,” Reem said. “Part of the reason they have so many problems is they think everyone should live like the Sahaabah.”

  “Is that a wrong assumption?” Sayed said challengingly. “We should behave like the Companions of the Prophet, sallaallaahu’alayhi wa sallam.”

  Reem slammed the brush down on the dresser and turned to face him. “Am I such a terrible person that Aliyah has the right to talk to me like that?”

  “And is she such a terrible person that you have the right to talk to her like that?” Sayed said. “SubhaanAllah, Reem. Take a step back. She didn’t disrespect you. She just expressed the same thing you’d feel if your Saudi friends said our children could never marry theirs. You wouldn’t want anything to do with them.”

  “I didn’t have to help her,” Reem said. “I was doing it for the sake of Allah.”

  “Really?” Sayed said, sarcasm in his tone. “If this was about Allah, then you wouldn’t have quit based on hurt feelings. Qur’an teachers don’t pick and choose who learns Allah’s Book.”

  “She can find another teacher.”

  “I sincerely hope she does,” Sayed said reflectively, shaking his head. “I really do. May Allah replace you with someone better.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re not in an emotional place to be her teacher right now, let alone her friend. So until you take a long, honest look at yourself and learn what it means to teach Qur’an, I think this is your loss, not hers. Allah doesn’t need us, remember that. We need Him. And when we use His Book for our own purposes, there is no blessing in that.”