Divorce Islamic Style (9781609458942) Page 3

  I’ve always liked this interpretation. To believe in maktùb is, above all, an act of faith. Things don’t happen by chance, there’s always a reason. What’s important is to do one’s best and accept one’s responsibilities. I like the concept of fair play in sports: give a hundred percent and accept the final result. This in my opinion is an example of maktùb.

  Issa

  I spent a week considering the proposal, weighing the pros and cons. Spying is despicable work. You’ve got to meet a lot of requirements if you’re going to be successful: don’t look people in the face and have betrayal in your heart—as the Neapolitans say. But I’m no fool, I can’t pretend not to notice: Islamic terrorists do exist, they’re not an invention of the media. They’ve already shown the world what they’re capable of; as a calling card the destruction of the Twin Towers was more than sufficient. So in the end I decided to accept.

  I met with the SISMI captain again, again at the court in Palermo. He was pleased with my response. He gave me three days to get ready. It wasn’t hard to invent an excuse to explain my absence: “I’m going to Tunis for work.” My parents said nothing, they’re used to their traveling son. But I had a hard time with Marta, my girlfriend. She wanted to know everything, as usual. She subjected me to her favorite quiz, the five “w”s: where, when, why, who, and what. Obviously she was disappointed by my answers—totally unsatisfied. But what could I tell her? I myself knew very little about the mission, and then, after all, I had to keep my mouth shut.

  Judas and I arrived in Rome in the evening. We settled in an apartment in Via Nazionale. It was a real retreat. A ten-day intensive course. The absolutely first lesson was to use the English word “intelligence,” rather than “espionage.” Words are important, as Nanni Moretti said. I learned a lot of tricks by working on the character I was to play: a young Tunisian immigrant who is moving from Sicily to Rome in search of his fortune. In the meantime we moved to the familiar tu without much trouble.

  “So, Tunisian, we have to find you an Arabic name. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “I’d suggest Issa.”

  “Issa? What does that mean?”

  “The equivalent of Jesus for Muslims.”

  “Jesus? The guy with the other cheek? We’re starting well!”

  “I like it.”

  “O.K., I understand. You want to be the good guy and I’m the bad guy, is that it? From now on call me Judas!”

  Judas and Issa, a perfect couple. The devil and the holy water go arm in arm. During the retreat I read a stack of documents about terrorists. We looked at a lot of film clips. What struck me in particular was a documentary about Mohamed Atta, the head of the September 11th terrorists. His will is one obvious proof of his madness; for example he writes that he doesn’t want pregnant women at his funeral. I saw a parade of terrorists, Algerian, Egyptian, Afghan, Pakistani, Iraqi, and others. All ready to sacrifice their youth to get to Paradise. Why in the world are they in such a hurry? Because the reward there is seventy virgins! Wow!

  After a few days I had my residency permit, and so I could start my life as a non-European: I am Issa by name, Kamli by surname, Tunisian by birth and citizenship, unmarried. Luckily they didn’t stick me with a wife and children. It’s not a small point, because Marta is very jealous and, above all, impulsive. She would never give me time to explain to her calmly how things are: she acts impetuously, before I finished she’d hit me. She resolves everything in the end by begging my forgiveness with a wild outburst of tears.

  During the preparatory phase of the mission I attended an important meeting. Little Cairo is a joint operation of the SISMI, the C.I.A., and the Mukhabarat, the Egyptian secret service. Judas introduced two colleagues: an American named James and an Egyptian, Antar.

  The meeting place was outside Rome, near Nettuno. The room was well equipped, the perfect setting for a spy thriller or a war movie. Photographs of the suspects in the first cell rolled by on a large screen. At the top of the list was Akram; there were the photos that showed him at Mecca.

  Antar, my new Egyptian colleague, asked permission to speak and he made a couple of observations: “The dates on the photographs are extremely important; they’re the incontrovertible proof that Akram did not go to Mecca for the ritual pilgrimage. On those particular days he should have been, like the rest of the pilgrims, in Medina, performing the various rites. The question is: what was he doing in Mecca?”

  The American, James, answered quickly, “On the basis of reliable information we’ve discovered that Al Qaeda takes advantage of the period of the hajj to organize gatherings without attracting attention. It’s impossible to check millions of pilgrims.”

  At the end of the meeting Captain Judas urged us all to be prudent: “Let’s try not to make amateurish mistakes, as in the case of the three Egyptians in Anzio.”

  On the retreat, while we prepared for the operation, Judas had told me about that case. In October of 2002 three Egyptian immigrants in Anzio were arrested on charges of planning attacks on the American military cemetery in Net­tuno, the McDonald’s in Rome, and the Fiumicino airport. In their house the police had found a gun and about a kilo and a half of TNT. The press attributed great importance to a belt (immediately christened “the suicide-bomber belt”) found in the closet of one of the three suspects eight days after the initial search. It turned out that it was the type of belt that the Muslim faithful wear when they go on a pilgrimage, to keep their money and documents safe. During the trial it emerged that the landlady had had a key role in the affair: in the preceding months she had quarreled frequently with the three suspects on matters having to do with payment of the rent. Further, it was discovered that she had had free access to the scene of the crime, thanks to the fact that the police had neglected to seal it . . . And what was the connection of the three accused men with Islamic terrorism? Only the testimony of a neighbor, an old man who stated that, while going up the stairs, he had heard one of them utter the name of bin Laden! In April, 2004, the Court of Assizes acquitted the three Egyptians of the charge of international terrorism, “because no crime was committed.” In the meantime those poor wretches had done almost two years of prison. Who had wanted to set them up? And why?

  Sofia

  There are scenes that stick in your mind like an unremovable tattoo. For example, I remember the day I cut my sister Nadia’s hair for the first time. She was desperate, because she didn’t have the money to go to a professional hairdresser. She couldn’t miss her best friend’s wedding, and she especially didn’t want to make a bad impression on the other girls, who were all rich kids. She trusted me and I didn’t fail her. I got it right on the first try. The haircut was stupendous and all her friends liked it.

  So I became the underground hairdresser of the poor girls of the neighborhood. I didn’t care about money, I accepted whatever they gave me. Often they gave me small presents: a shirt, a skirt, a purse, a fashion magazine. It was absolutely necessary to improve my technique, and, to keep up with the news of the profession, I devoured foreign women’s magazines like Femmes d’Aujourd’hui, Marie Claire, Elle, Vanity Fair, Vogue, although tracking them down was a real undertaking.

  As an adolescent one tends to think on a grand scale, without taking reality too much into account. My dream of becoming a hairdresser got bigger and bigger: a reference point of my existence, my reason for living. I dreamed of opening my own hair salon.

  A dream is like a plant that grows day by day and produces good fruit as long as you don’t neglect it. And I—I am very generous with my dreams. I give the best of myself. However, I did realize that the plan would be difficult to carry out in Egypt or any other Muslim country: with so many veiled women, where would I get my clients?

  Little by little, I convinced myself that my dream would have to take place somewhere else: in Europe or America. Paris, London, Rome, Madrid, New York—why not?

  I had no hesitation about choosing to study languages at the university. I threw myself into l
earning English and French. Luckily my knowledge of French helped me learn Italian when I ended up in Rome.

  I graduated without any difficulty: I had the right motivation and the necessary enthusiasm. Many suitors knocked at our door to ask for my hand. Of course, I’m not a blonde, but still I’m a pretty dark-haired girl, typically Arab. I uttered many “No, thank you”s.

  Among the candidates, however, a young man showed up who had emigrated to Italy but was from the neighborhood next to ours. His name was Said, he had a degree in architecture, and he said he was working as a chef in a big restaurant in Rome. An architect who works as a cook? It’s the truth. Anyway, when I became his wife I discovered two things: first, that he wasn’t a chef but simply a pizza maker. Second, that he’s called Felice—“happy.” In Egypt we say, “If your neighbor is happy, you become happy, too.” I’m his wife, not his neighbor, and yet I still haven’t seen all this happiness, at least not so far.

  During our brief engagement my architect revealed that he had been in love with me since high school. How touching! He had loved me in secret. And yet I did not remember ever having seen him before.

  I would say that he was rather lazy, what would it have taken to write me a love letter or send me a pretty red flower, remaining anonymous, of course. What a pity! Yet another secret love not returned.

  As for the engagement, among us things are different: fiancés are permitted to hold hands, to sit in a café and have tea, exchange romantic words of love, but . . . but no sex before marriage. Kisses? Better not, or confined to the cheek. Let’s be clear: to be engaged is one thing, to act like husband and wife is another. This I will not say again.

  To simplify, we might say that engagement Egyptian style, Arab style, Muslim style is something like making a reservation, obviously after you’ve paid some money for the fiancée’s shebka. This word refers to the jewels that are given to her, but it resembles shabaka, a word that means net, as in a fishing net. Now, the question is: who is the fisherman and who is the fish? What does the fiancé get in exchange? Well, he gets the right to publicly claim his future private property. Congratulations to the lucky beauty; finally, after years on display, she can leave the shop window. And, as the Italians say, “Good luck and may you have male children!”

  After two meetings in the living room of our house I agreed to marry the architect. Was it a marriage of convenience, an arranged marriage? Of course. And what’s wrong with that? Marriage can be arranged or not. There’s no third way. The ones that aren’t arranged have the same ending, anyway, with the refrain typical of all self-respecting soap operas.

  Here’s a taste:

  “I thought you were generous, faithful, sensitive, affectionate, et cetera, et cetera. Instead, after the wedding . . . ”

  “Don’t say that, I implore you.”

  “I thought you were the love of my life, the man with whom I’d raise children, travel, go shopping, grow old, and so forth. Instead, after the wedding . . . ”

  “That’s enough, please.”

  “I thought you were my ideal. Instead, after the wedding . . . ”

  “Eeeeeenough!”

  I have to admit that no one forced me to say the fateful “yes.” Luckily, on questions of marriage my family tended to keep a low profile, so there was no pressure or, worse, blackmail of the type: “You should marry him without thinking twice, otherwise you’ll find that you’re an old maid with no future.” Or: “Don’t you see, my poor daughter, that your cousins (all of them) and friends (really all of them) are married, and that you’re the only one who keeps looking?” In the case of advice I always say “Thank you.” In the case of pity I’m ready with a “Go to hell” instead. Clear?

  Basically I wasn’t happy about the idea of the marriage itself, but I liked the idea of going to live in Italy: the Mecca of fashion. It was a sign of maktùb. I saw myself already managing a hairdressing salon or working with famous designers like Valentino, Versace, Armani, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana . . . Why not?

  I was sure that I would be successful in Italy. I had reflected a lot on the fact that women increasingly resort to cosmetic surgery. Apart from the high cost, there are serious health risks when the surgery fails. I’ve often seen on TV remade women who look like inflated monsters, with horrible breasts and clown lips. I said to myself––“These poor women, they don’t know that the secret of feminine beauty lies in caring for their hair.” Hair is half of beauty! Come on, wake up, ladies!

  A few months ago I saw a show about the actress Michelle Pfeiffer on Channel 5. She was so beautiful in the film with Al Pacino where she played the waitress. But even she had had her lips touched up. In my opinion, she didn’t need to. She should have gone to a good hairdresser rather than the operating room of a cosmetic surgeon. And let’s talk about Melanie Griffith, who’s married to Antonio Banderas: it seems that that poor woman is always sick because of drugs and alcohol. So what? So nothing. I prefer not to say anything else. You don’t shoot at the Red Cross, or am I wrong?

  My euphoria didn’t last long. Unfortunately reality is stronger than dreams. A few days before the wedding the architect asked me to wear the veil.

  “What did you say? I didn’t hear you. Could you repeat that, please?”

  “My love, you have to put on the veil.”

  “Is this a joke? Of course, and here I almost fell for it! You’re a real Egyptian, what an actor. Hahaha.”

  “No, my love, I’m speaking seriously. This is a condition.”

  Put on the veil? Maybe I hadn’t understood. Were we going to live in Italy or Iran? Is the veil compulsory in Rome? Felice was not joking at all. A real low blow. A blow below the belt. If we had been in the ring the referee would immediately have given him a warning and I would have gotten some points. Maybe I would even have won, in the end. Are there rules of the game to be followed, or am I wrong? The real problem is that we live in a society where the male is both the opponent and, at the same time, the referee. We women—what can we do? Will we ever win in this situation?

  I tried very patiently to persuade him to give up his absurd condition, insisting on a fundamental point: the veil is not one of the five pillars of Islam and can in no way be used to measure a woman’s conduct. Basically—let’s be frank—the veil is just a bit of fabric. While faith is an infinite universe. In all intellectual honesty, I have to confess that that last sentence is not an arrow from my quiver. I don’t remember where I heard it, but I like it a lot and every so often I pull it out. Good, eh?

  I was like an impassioned lawyer, engaged to save an innocent child from the pyre: “I’ve done my five daily prayers ever since I was ten years old, I never forget to give the zakat, alms to the poor, I never skip a day of Ramadan, the only thing I haven’t done to fulfill the obligations of Islam is the pilgrimage to Mecca (but I’m twenty-seven and there’s still time, inshallah). In other words, I consider myself a good Muslim even without the veil.” One couldn’t be more clear and logical than that. Unfortunately, the architect wouldn’t listen to reason; it was like talking to a stone. In the end I thought of breaking the engagement and cancelling the wedding, but the risks were too great. People wouldn’t understand my motives.

  “Hello, dear, I’m sorry the engagement was broken off. What can we do? It’s maktùb. Tell me what happened.”

  “He asked me to wear the veil, a week before the wedding. Obviously I said no. That’s the whole thing.

  “You mean it’s not because of your virginity?”

  “Virginity? It has absolutely nothing to do with that.”

  “You mean the real reason is the veil?”

  “Yes. That’s the truth.”

  “The truth? You don’t say! Hahaha.”

  If you think about it, in the Arab world breaking an engagement is like getting divorced without even getting married. What a joke! Thank God our society is an open book. Every­thing’s clear. It doesn’t take the genius of Einstein to get it. And I, luckily, am not a fool.

&n
bsp; Anyway, I knew in advance that if the wedding didn’t take place on the established day everyone would think that it was my fault, mine alone. I would never get away with it. The family of my former fiancé, seduced and abandoned, would have used a powerful weapon to discredit me and get their revenge: they would spread the rumor that the former fiancée (that is, me) wasn’t a virgin. It’s a trick that always works. And this would have ruined the reputation of my family and harmed the future of my sisters and my first and maybe even second and third cousins.

  Instead of a hand grenade, I would become a new atomic bomb! And then I couldn’t run that tremendous risk: to have on my conscience a dozen old maids!

  Virginity, with us, is an obsession, something sacred. You don’t play games with the bridegroom’s trophy. In Morocco they say “Ànnaq u bus wa khelli rahbat laàrùs,” “Hug and kiss, but don’t touch what is reserved for the husband.” So, diplomatically, I put off the problem of the veil until after the wedding. I thought that the question was still open. I was confident. Maybe a little too confident.

  As for the veil: there are women who choose it freely, and their reasons can be various: out of conviction (they believe that the veil is the sixth pillar of Islam); for economic reasons (they save a lot of money on clothes); to avoid physical and verbal molestation in public places.

  I waited a year and a half at my parents’ house before I could get a visa for a family reunion. I arrived in Rome with my daughter on a summer day of suffocating heat. I was wearing the veil, just as my architect wanted. We came to live here, in Viale Marconi, where he had rented a small apartment: bedroom, small bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom. We’re on the fifth floor, but thank God there’s an elevator. It’s hard to climb all those stairs, especially on hot days, with the veil sticking to you!