Lightness of Being…

Sarah still welcomed dawn, scrubbed and clean, with coffee and a prayer. She enjoyed the sacred moments before daylight opened her floodgates. There was cooking, cleaning, kids to get ready, a husband to avoid, children to transport around, invariably a funeral, wedding or sick person to visit, and always a day full of activity awaiting her.

But those tranquil Fajr moments were hers alone and she relished them.

Religion was never really mentioned in their household, for Waleed was hopelessly out of touch with his forefathers’ beliefs. Their children learned the mechanics of prayer, some smatterings of the Quran, but what they really internalized was the insidious forms of cruelty and muted depression blanketing their lives.

Her oldest was only 8 when he asked his mom:

“Are they married?” referring to a couple who were holding hands and giggling, obviously in love with each other.

“Yes sweetie, of course”
“Do they live together?” his voice was skeptic.
“Yeah, that’s what married people do honey” her voice falsely bright.
“Then how come they are so nice to each other?” Incredulously.

She had no response.

He carried his father proud face, and a knack for subtle cruelty. He was learning fast, and knew from a young age that his mother deserved none of his respect. It was his father’s heart that he was after. And he sought it by emulating his every move.

Her middle child, a daughter, lived to please everyone. She wore an identical set of her mother’s eyes, and soft beautiful face. Her eyes never laughed though. Ever. She tried to appease everyone around her by day, and went to sleep weeping silently every night. She was only 7.

Her last born baby was 3 and lived in his own world of play and vivid imagination. He never worried or seemed to notice the on goings of their household.

-

If someone were to ask Sarah “are you close to God?”
She would think they were crazy. Her relationship with God was more like a formal submission to an authority figure. God was characterized in the erratic whipping dispensed by her angry Madrassa teacher, the harsh descriptions of hell roaring from the minaret on Fridays, and in the resigned acceptance of suffering worn proudly like battle scars by women around her.

Closeness to God was a luxury only those in privileged positions could contemplate.

In their small persevering island, God was known only from the vantage point of the weak at the hands of an All Powerful and Unpredictable Benefactor. It was in the unpredictability of His design that they pinned up all their hopes.

“You know” other women consolingly told her “God could change his heart just like that. Tomorrow, your Waleed might wake up to be a very different man”. She held on to those tomorrows, and the years turned along with her waning hopes;  just as gradually as the faint lines wore her face, and as steadily as her laughter died.

She never associated God with the warmth in her grandfather’s eyes, the fragrance of yasmine fully in bloom, or even the overwhelming vastness of the ocean. Those things were too sacred and she treasured them in her own wordless way.

She still did pray earnestly to her God though, for what else was there to do? She prayed the prayer of the meek. Her existence was epitomized by the story of the sheep being lead to slaughter, willingly, but still waiting with baited breath for God Almighty’s intervention.

So when someone suggested she seek the counsel of the local Imam, it was only in a moment of pure desperation that pushed Sarah to finally go.

-

“Come in my daughter, come in”  a pleasant chubby face with a nicely trimmed white beard greeted her. She walked in hesitantly and sat at the only available chair opposite him. His office, right next to her neighborhood mosque, was simple and cluttered. The furniture was a hand me down desk with a matching swivel chair, a simple wooden chair, and a couch on the corner with the sponges peeking out eagerly underneath the worn upholstery. It was a small room, lined with dusty shelves bursting with books, papers and files. She wondered what information lay behind all those tattered papers and makeshift folders. She hoped it wasn’t too important.

He coughed and smiled pleasantly with the patient air of a man who had little else to do.

She realized she hadn’t spoken since she walked in.

“Umm..i am here to talk about my, umm…relationship with my husband.”

“Yes, of course” he nodded.

He knew the story. The whole island understood the dynamics of her relationship. She sat searching for words.

“well, you know, it has been more than ten years and I am just….just exhausted”.

“hmm…What is exactly the problem sister?”

She looked up in surprise; surely he knows what the problem is?

“Let me ask you this” He tried a different approach “Does he provide for your family?”

“Yes, it is not really the provisions, Alhamdullillah, his father takes care of us very well” she clarified.

“Okay, kheir. He is not physically violent, is he?” Creases of concern lined his face.

“No, no, he has never hit me” she assured him hurriedly.

He linked his fingers, and waited his cute expectant smile back in place.

“It is just…” she groped for words “he is mean, he doesn’t appreciate me…and I feel so worthless”

“Well sister that is hardly cause for worry. I mean, as you know other women come here weeping bruised and abandoned…”

“He sleeps around!” she blurted out the words feeling the tightness in her chest constricting her breath.

“oh!” two shaggy eyebrows rose in interest “do you have any evidence? Four witnesses?”

“No, I don’t, I just know!” She couldn’t stop the tears from finally flowing.

“Well sister that is a big claim that you are making, and if you don’t have evidence…” he shrugged, as if to indicate there was really nothing he could do.

You don’t understand! she wanted to scream. You don’t know what it is like, to try and try until you feel so worthless and ashamed, to keep trying until you are just no more! He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t even like me, much less love me. You don’t know what it is like to try and make someone love you. To still wear lingerie after 10 years and wait for him every night. To sleep in a cold bed and hope every morning that he will wake up changed man. That he will recognize your humanity. That he will say one sweet thing to you, and truly mean it. That the little hope he offers you, is not shattered by the coldness of his eyes, or the disdainful curl of his lips.

You don’t know, she really wanted to say, what it is like to desperately need validation from the one man on earth who constantly negates your very being.

“See sister, this life is a struggle” the Imam interrupted her thoughts softly. “Some people are born without eyes, some without legs. Some have to deal with poverty. Others husbands who beat them, others with sickness. You really have to be grateful to Allah and He will change your situation. You see, if you are not grateful for all the little things He gives you, you will not be blessed. Be patient sister, what you are going through is not really bad compared to others. If he is mean to you, be nice back. Maybe if you are a really good wife, he will come around. Just be patient and play your part and let Allah take care of the rest”
The Imam delivered the final punch line “And besides you have children to think about Sister, it is not just about your feelings anymore”

She nodded. Of course what else did she expect? She thanked him for his time and left.

Maybe things aren’t so bad after all.

What was the big deal anyway?

The Imam reiterated the same point that kept her with him for over a decade. She lived in one of the prettiest villas in a secluded part of town. Her children went to the best private school, they had tennis, soccer, piano, and horseback riding lessons. They had a private tutor for Quran on weekends. They had been to London, Paris, Riyadh and Beijing on separate holidays.

If she left her husband, how was she supposed to afford them the type of life they were used to? She, who was only armed with a mediocre high school education at best?

She thought of her first born son and shuddered. If she were to yank him away from the lap of luxury he feels entitled to, he would never forgive her. Ever.

Who would take care of them, if she left them behind?

These dilemmas kept her trapped in her fortress of sorrow. Praying everyday for a sort of miracle that will bring her husband back into their lives, their family, and most importantly into their hearts.

Will he ever love her again?

Did he ever?

After all the hurt and emotional abuse he inflicted, could she dare open her heart back to him again?

Does she even love him?

Did she ever?
-
Bored.

That’s how he would describe his constant state. Nothing thrilled Waleed anymore. Not even his endless train of sexy, petulant mistresses. They were all the same.

Bitches.

He cursed a lot nowadays.

He was pushing 45, and the emptiness of his life drove him crazy.

He derived comfort in nothing. And though his friends constantly tell him, he is lucky to have such a gorgeous and good wife and children, he never saw it.

She nagged him too much and always acted “holier than thou” with the silent suffering she carried around like a damn badge of honor.

His children offered, alternatively, a source of mild amusement and irritation. He took pride in his first born though. He was going to grow up to be a real man one day.

I need to spend more time with him, he vowed habitually, knowing fully he never intended to keep it.

His daughter was invisible to him. She looked and acted too much like her mother. Her big somber eyes vexed him. She was only a child for God’s sake and already had her mother’s penchant for victim hood.

Waleed had picked up and consequently dropped golf, scuba diving, tennis, basketball and other sports.

He stopped going to clubs, when he realized he was the by far the oldest man in the room. Instead, his friends and he organized private parties in his side crib. Women came in every weekend, demurely wearing burqas, only to be teased out of them dancing, stripping, and playing to their sordid fantasies. Even those got boring after a while.

He hated them all.

He hated his life.

His own father had stopped trying to involve him in the empire he was busy building. Waleed was too distracted and did not have the discipline it took to run a business. Like his 20 odd other siblings, Waleed’s household was well provided for, and he was afforded an extra account and credit cards for his own amusements.

Waleed hated his father’s indifference to him.

 I can’t wait till the old bastard dies, he thought. Knowing full well, his presence alive is what affords him the luxuries he enjoys. Left to their own devices, his siblings would battle the empire to dust, the moment their father steps into his grave.

Beyond his titillating pleasures, Waleed could not see the point of life.

He despised everyone around him.

It was Sarah he saved his special brand of loathing for, though. For in her eyes, he saw all the collective hurt, disappointment and aches he normally is able to shut out of his life. He saw the ghosts of his past, women of all ages offering him their lives, willingly, and yet asking nothing in return.

In her eyes, he saw his mother’s story replayed especially to torment him.

He detested those big, brown, pools of reflection.

He never entertained thoughts of divorcing her though. For he knew at least ten guys (his friends included) would be lining up for her. Unlike him, she had gorgeous looks and an impeccable reputation, who wouldn’t want her?

She didn’t know that though. This thought satisfied him. He made sure to remind her at least once a day what a worthless piece of shit she really is.

If he couldn’t stand seeing her in wrapped in her silent cloaks of sorrow, he would die before seeing her happy in another man’s arms.

Misery does love company; and Sarah was solely his;  to own, manipulate, and loathe at will.
-
(To be continued).