Divorce Islamic Style (9781609458942) Page 5

  I call my family in Egypt once a week. I try to stay in touch in order not to succumb to the weight of homesickness. It’s been two years since we went back. Why? We prefer not to go every year because of the cost. A round-trip ticket between Rome and Cairo is expensive. Then, there are gifts for the family members, of whom there are really a lot. Last time, we went into debt to pay all the expenses.

  Every immigrant who goes home for vacation wants to demonstrate that he’s been successful. In fact, he has to act like a rich guy, play the part of the American uncle. First of all, he has to dress like a movie star, then he has to hand out money right and left. The script is heavy and repetitious, and has to last the whole length of the visit. Worse than any soap opera. Mistakes are not tolerated. The performance has to be perfect.

  My dear immigrant, I advise you strongly not to talk about the unpleasant or negative aspects of immigration. Like? Well, there’s an embarrassment of choices. I’ll be content to cite just a few examples: unemployment, off-the-books employment, high rent, racism, fear of losing your residency permit, absence of family etc. etc. But it’s all pointless—no one will believe you. If someone asks, “How do you live in the West, in Europe, in Italy?” remember the right answer: “It’s a paradise on earth!” This is fundamental. And there’s no harm if you add a little something from your rich imagination.

  Something like: when you arrive at the airport of Fiumicino for the first time you find anxious and desperate employers holding up signs: “Looking for workers. Food, lodging, and salary guaranteed.” Not bad for a start, right? You’re not obliged to accept an offer right away, since you just got there. You need to rest. Right? Work can wait.

  On the train into the city you’ll sit next to a beautiful blonde in a miniskirt and with the smile of a Marilyn Monroe. You’ll chat about this and that, that is, simple things like politics and sports. When you reach the station, she won’t let you go to a hotel, she’ll insist on taking you home with her. I’m telling you, don’t say no. Courage! You’re very lucky. You won’t sleep in the guest room but in her bed. Her bed? Yes, exactly. I won’t tell you what you’ll do all night, you can imagine it, no? And anyway, that’s your business.

  My friend, European women are not like the women of your country, they’re not neurotic and backward, but open in every way. What did you say? I didn’t hear you. Can you repeat that, please? You ask me about virginity? Hahaha. Don’t worry, no one will force you to marry the blonde because you went to bed with her. That’s no problem. Those things still happen in your country, but not here.

  Let’s keep going. Don’t worry about documents, no one notices. Really? Of course! And the police checks? An urban legend. And the detention centers for illegal immigrants? They don’t exist, like flying saucers and aliens. And the difficulties of learning the language? You can do without it. A pure formality: people communicate with gestures, like chimpanzees.

  After a brief stay in the country called “Paradise on earth” you can go to the bank and ask for all the loans you want, at zero interest. You can buy anything: a Ferrari, a villa on Lake Garda, a new wife (docile as a sheep), and so on and so forth.

  Don’t wake the poor dreamers, don’t break the spell, and above all never complain to those who stayed down there and can’t wait to leave their hell for your paradise. And always remember: a person who has a toothache doesn’t have the right to complain to a person who has cancer of the prostate or the brain. There’s a limit to unseemliness. You have to feel pity for the people who’ve stayed down there, in the country of origin. In Italian “down” means low: when a person is sad or depressed, he says simply: I’m down. Get it?

  You can understand, then, why many Egyptians delay the return home in the grand style—in order not to find themselves in this situation, which can be stressful and very upsetting. They say to themselves and their families, in a consolatory tone: “There’s no maktùb for this year, may it be next year, inshallah!”

  It’s very tough to be truthful and tell things as they are. Immigrants prefer to lie to their relatives when they’re unemployed, or exploited at work, or treated badly by the police, and so on. Why? They’re afraid of not being understood, of being considered failures. That’s the key word: failure. Every immigrant is condemned to be successful. Well? Well, nothing. He has to get rich. How? It doesn’t matter how. In the end the result alone is what counts, or am I wrong?

  I often go to the call center of my husband’s friend. The place is frequented by Arabs, Egyptians for the most part. Akram, the owner, is very proud of the fact that he was one of the first immigrants (“No, really the first!” he maintains) to come and live in Viale Marconi. In some ways he can be compared to Christopher Columbus. Certainly he will be remembered in the history books of future generations as the pioneer of the Little Cairo of Rome. He places a high value on posterity, which explains the name he chose for his place: Little Cairo.

  Akram is an important person in the life of our neighborhood. If he didn’t exist, you’d have to invent him. He’s an indispensable middleman for every type of business: renting a house, a room, or a bed, organizing a trip to Egypt or to Mecca, looking for a job or a wife, the renewal of a residency permit, application for Italian citizenship, and so on. To see him do his utmost for someone you would say he’s altruistic and helpful, just like a volunteer from Caritas or the Red Cross. In reality his services aren’t free. He’s a shopkeeper to his marrow. Every­thing has its price. For example, if he helps you find a bed you mustn’t try to be smart and think you can get by with a “Thank you” or a “God bless you.” It’s not done, it would be a serious discourtesy, Akram might be offended. It’s better to give him some euros right away, to have him on your side. Someone like him can always be useful. He’s a sort of master key.

  He lives in Rome with his wife and three children. There are rumors, more and more persistent, about polygamy. There are even some who call him “the illegal polygamist” . . . But behind his back, not in front of him. It’s said that he has two other wives, one in Egypt and one in Saudi Arabia. And that would explain his frequent trips abroad, in spite of the expense. Every year he goes to Mecca, “for the pilgrimage,” he maintains. An excuse like that is full of holes! Islam says that a single pilgrimage in your life is more than enough to fulfill the fifth religious obligation. In other words, maybe he’s substituted the pilgrimage for Ramadan, which has an annual rhythm. The question remains open: why does he go to Mecca every blessed year?

  Akram knows all of our secrets. He’s very skillful at getting people to talk. His questions are perfect traps, it’s hard not to fall into them. He pays attention to the tiniest details and remembers everything. Some suspect that he has a system for intercepting all his clients’ phone calls. It’s not entirely impossible. It’s not difficult to record calls; today there are sophisticated computer programs. And someone who possesses a mine of secrets can use them for manipulation or blackmail.

  Akram is vain. For example he likes to be called hagg, pilgrim. It’s a prestigious title, given to those who make the pilgrimage to Mecca or to an old person as a sign of deference. Today I’m in a good mood, I feel like making him happy. Usually he calls me Madame; in Egypt that’s a respectful way of addressing a woman. It’s one of the French words that have remained in Egyptian speech.

  “Hello, hagg Akram.”

  “Hello, Madame. How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Health?”

  “Thank God.”

  “Work?”

  Work? Akram coming out into the open! This is not a mistake, it’s a message. He’s asking about work, though he knows that, at least officially, I’m a housewife. What is he alluding to? Well, at this point, it’s likely that he knows—that for a year I’ve been secretly working as a hairdresser at my friend Samira’s house. I have a couple of clients every week. My husband is in the dark about the whole thing.

  For now Akram prefers to keep his mouth shut. What will he want in exchange
for his silence? Sooner or later I’ll find out. I try to smile, to hide my embarrassment. I go into an empty booth and call my sister Zeineb, but no one answers. I dial the number of our house in Cairo.

  “Hello, mamma.”

  “Hello, my dear. How are you? And how is your husband and the little one?”

  “We’re all fine, mamma.”

  “So you’ll come next summer?”

  I expected this question. I have an answer ready: “There’s no maktùb this time, maybe next year, inshallah.” I avoid telling her the truth, which is that we can’t afford the cost of the trip and all the rest. It’s so frustrating! I miss them so much. I feel like crying, but I try to hold back my tears. Luckily I manage to pull myself together, thanks to two nice surprises that my mother has for me. First, this year my parents will make the pilgrimage to Mecca. I’m happy for them. My father was very set on it. Second, my younger sister, Layla, is getting married at the end of the year, after five years of engagement. She and her fiancé finally found a house.

  When I hang up I realize that tears are falling down my cheeks. I open my purse and look for a tissue, but I can’t find one. Damn! I don’t want Akram to see me in this state, but I can’t stay shut up inside here all day. As I’m coming out of the booth a young man with a mustache offers me a tissue. I take it and thank him. He doesn’t say anything, but he smiles at me. I’ve never seen him before. I dry the tears and go to Akram to pay.

  On the way home, I easily identify the reason for my tears: the fact that I won’t be present at my sister’s wedding really makes me sad. It’s hard not to share important moments like this with your family.

  To deflect the sadness I start philosophizing about marriage and divorce. For an Egyptian Muslim girl like my sister Layla, getting married will not be the end of her journey but, rather, the start. The tests never stop. You have to get ready for other challenges, of which the absolutely most important is: never get divorced! The divorced woman carries the burden of failure her whole life. She is condemned to death and executed countless times. Every look is an accusation, every judgment a death sentence. What? Death sentence? Yes, it really is. Social death is crueler than physical death. Where can a woman without a husband, and without her virginity, go? Nowhere. If she’s widowed the situation is different, because it’s not her fault. It’s a question of maktùb. In the case of divorce, on the other hand, you don’t disturb Signor Maktùb. There’s no use looking for a scapegoat. The divorced woman is the only offender. The perfect offender.

  It’s hard to explain to people here that for us when a woman marries she changes guardians: she moves from her father’s jurisdiction to her husband’s. It’s like a shop that changes owners. At first there is plenty of hope and, especially, enthusiasm. But after a while you realize that the situation hasn’t changed; in fact, in certain ways it’s worse. “We were better off when we were worse off,” as Grandfather Giovanni says. (I’ll have occasion to talk about him later, he’s very entertaining.)

  Anyway, the important thing is for the bride to emerge safe and sound from the market of unmarried women. It’s not a small thing. The market of divorced women, on the other hand, is utterly the worst, full of predators, profiteers, and every sort of gawker. It’s better to be an old maid than divorced. I have no doubts about that.

  The wedding is only the first test, I was saying. I, for example, thank God, passed the test of virginity with no problems, after a very embarrassing night. We were both virgins, even though with us it seems that virginity is a feminine monopoly. Men who have never done it are simply “inexperienced.” My husband is a practicing believer, before me he had never gone to bed with a woman. This is quite an advantage. I’m sure he won’t betray me. Not because he loves me, but out of fear of God. Conjugal faithfulness is assured. You Italian women, don’t go saying “Lucky you.” It’s no bed of roses. Marrying a fervent Muslim has advantages and disadvantages. My friend, if you marry a man like that you have to expect some inconveniences; for example, polygamy. Oh yes. It’s part of the package, take it or leave it. Let’s see how you manage to compete not with one but with three women! You want a scene from a soap opera that introduces the subject of polygamy?

  “I’ve decided to take another wife, dear.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have the right to have four wives. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

  “What have I done to deserve such a punishment?”

  “C’est la vie, ma chère. I’m a man and I can do as I like.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “That’s what you say, my dear! Hahaha. I follow the teachings of the Koran.”

  “The Koran isn’t very clear about polygamy.”

  “That’s what you say, my dear! Hahaha. I’m only following the example of the Prophet.”

  Polygamy in Islam: what confusion. And so? So what. I should explain. I would agree that the Koran is the word of God, but it always requires an interpretation. Here is the root of the problem: a woman’s interpretation of the Koran still doesn’t exist. Not one. It’s a male monopoly. Women are excluded from so many things. For example, there’s no verse, or hadith, that prohibits a woman from being an imam. In spite of that, I’ve never once in my life seen a woman leading prayers.

  The truth is, Muslims who are continually citing the Prophet Mohammed, and then, safe at home, beat their wife and children, make me angry. Our Prophet was not a violent man. I know his story, I find it absolutely ridiculous to reduce his great example to polygamy. Even if he lived fourteen centuries ago, I think he’s very advanced compared to the Muslims of today.

  Would you like to talk about polygamy in the Koran? I’m not afraid. I’m ready. I didn’t study at the religious university of Al Azhar, but I’ve read a ton of books on the subject. So: there are just three lines on the subject of polygamy and they are found in the chapter titled “Women.” Here’s exactly what they say: “Among the women you like, marry two or three or four, and if you’re afraid you can’t be fair to them, then one alone.” End of quotation. In my humble opinion, polygamy is linked to conditions that are impossible to fulfill. I would like to see how Signor Polygamist will be fair to four wives! In fact, he’ll have to divide everything precisely into four: time, money, kisses, presents, and so on. It’s easier to see the moon at midday than to treat four women in the identical way. It’s a real mess, and leads straight to the insane asylum. Poor polygamist? Poor my foot! His bad luck.

  Yet, and I’m sorry to say this, the battle against polygamy was lost from the start. Why? I’ve already explained it. O.K., let’s repeat it for the last time: in Muslim society the male is the opponent and the referee at the same time. Is it clear now?

  Anyway, I personally don’t have to worry too much, because my husband isn’t rich. Polygamy is a luxury, and not all Muslims (I would add: luckily) can afford it.

  My wedding night? I would say that it went well, in spite of our lack of experience. I don’t feel like recounting the details. I’m a little embarrassed. And then Islam prohibits spouses from speaking to third parties about their sex life. What happens in the bedroom should remain top secret. But everyone knows that we women talk too much. We often let ourselves go with our best friends, who in turn have other best friends, and so on. In the end marital secrets lose their value and become the subject of gossip. I, however, am careful about these things.

  The test of virginity is only the first on the list. Right afterward comes the test of fertility. Because in Muslim society sterility is cause for divorce. If the couple doesn’t succeed in having children it’s always the woman’s fault, as if impotence and male sterility didn’t even exist.

  Thank God I got pregnant right away. Another important test passed. Great joy all around. And right away the expectations started: let’s hope it’s a male! The name had been ready ever since my father-in-law died, may God have mercy on his soul. Instead, Aida arrived. She’s four now, and she’s the light of my life. She was born in Cairo,
nine months after the wedding. I didn’t waste any time. How good I’ve been!

  Thank God traditions, especially the ones that are harmful to women, don’t last for eternity. Everything comes to an end, and God Almighty remains. Because, sooner or later, change arrives, like the sun when it melts mountains of ice. In my grandmother’s time, a woman who gave birth only to girls was considered half sterile, and seriously risked being divorced. Fertility is bound up with the procreation of males. All the husbands of that time were very demanding; they were considered kings and they wanted a male heir. A man who has only daughters is only half a father, and for that he deserves compassion: poor man, he’s Abu al-banat, a father of girls!

  The early days in Italy were really hard. When I went out on the street, people looked at me morbidly, almost obsessively. I wondered: Was I walking around naked? And then in their eyes I often saw irritation, uneasiness, impatience, and fear. And I wondered: Why are they afraid of me?

  After a while I discovered the answer: my veil was like a traffic signal where people had to stop. That obligatory stop was the ideal moment to unload tensions, fears, worries, anxiety, et cetera. People needed to vent. I was like the punching bag that fighters use for training. In fact, when I walked in the neighborhood of Viale Marconi I was never alone. I was always arm in arm with a crowd of ghost companions: their names? Jihad, holy war, suicide bomber, September 11th, terrorism, attacks, Iraq, Afghanistan, Twin Towers, bombs, March 11th, Al Qaeda, Taliban. And so on. In other words, I was a sort of bin Laden disguised as a woman. People must have been afraid, of course. So little by little I figured out a way. I had to resist in order not to isolate myself within the four walls of my house, a path that leads directly to depression.

  I decided to intervene. First of all, I threw myself into studying Italian. Then I began to wear colorful veils. I eliminated black, because it symbolizes mourning and grief. I like to combine colors: a pink, green, or purple scarf with a white, blue, or gray outfit. I try always to be smiling. Our Prophet says: “A smile is like giving alms.” I struggled not to lose faith in myself. But what a lot of work!