Lightness of Being…

Tia

May 2002

Women here ask me all the time, “out of the whole wide expanse of Africa, why in the world did you choose Mombasa?”

It really happened by chance actually. Kismet, as Sahar would say. Yeah, I am at the point now where I can quote her and even think of her with a certain amnesiac fondness. But it hasn’t been an easy road. It must have been in the stubbornness of my love for Jamaal, or the secret glow of sympathy that I felt for Sahar. It could have been for my children, whose helpless dependence on the solidity of my presence that kept me going. I look back now and wonder how I lasted a whole decade. A whole decade is a long time to be holding on, clamoring for attention, choking on bitterness, compromising small pieces of my dignity, wallowing in insecurities and playing little game that were meant to substitute for the love we once cherished.

But I refuse to talk about that now. Feeding words into my story hurts my soul too much.

I chose Mombasa, to escape.

Once, a long time ago, I used to baby sit for a Kenyan woman of Kikuyu descent called Yvonne. She took one look at my tan skin, high cheekbones, round curves and short mess of curls and asked if I was from Mombasa. Honestly, I didn’t even know how to pronounce that place, let alone where in the world it was located. She remarked that if I was to ever get lost in its marketplaces, no one would guess I was a foreigner there.

Unbeknownst to her, Yvonne had planted a secret thrilling seed in my heart. I read up obsessively on Mombasa. The ocean breeze laced with Indian spices and exotic thrills called out to me; the sweltering tropical heat whispered promises of long languid days; and the delightful mess of all things Arab, African, Islamic, Christian, Hindu, Tribal created a mosaic of vibrant colors and clanging rhythm that eventually jarred me out of my complacency. I had to get out.

I even imagined with foolish romanticism that perhaps it wasn’t my Cherokee roots that birthed my looks, but a stray Yemeni merchant had hooked up with one of my great grandparents out in Detroit, Michigan. It could be possible. No one ever did trace our family tree to that level of detail.

When my children no longer needed me; when the overwhelming chasm between my husband and I  extinguished any flickering hope I had been holding on to; and when the inane civility I had insisted with Sahar simply drove me up the wall; I started designing my exit plan.

It was Mona who worked hardest to see me through it all. She researched opportunities for grants, talked me through the application, dispelled my doubts, contacted my references, and went to mail out everything before I had a chance to change my mind.

A year later, I found myself on the plane, heading towards my whimsical destination, my suppressed agony gradually unfurling into a thousand wings.

Penetrating the bluest depths of the skies offered me the perspective needed to dislodge my pain. The fluffy mass of cottony clouds dissipated my bitterness. Trying to wrap my brain around the unfathomable sense of freedom lying ahead of me dissolved my tears into a ringing laughter that continued pulsating in my depths long after the memories of that endless plane ride had vanished.

I stepped out of that plane a changed woman. That moment marked the beginning of the rest of my life.

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Sahar L’abi
Washington DC

May 1990 

My friends tell me it’s Kismet. What is meant to be will eventually become. I say it is all in the timing. Perhaps the timing is part of the bigger design equation, who knows. A couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have even looked at the brother let alone indulged him in superfluous rhetoric on religion. I had his “type” figured out, and if there was one thing I couldn’t stand in a man, it was hypocrisy. Growing up I couldn’t help but wonder at how our religious culture did nothing but produce two-faced, self righteous, pig headed chauvinists who were never at ease in the real world.

A couple of years ago, I would have hated his guts. But he caught me in a salient moment, struggling with my identity, jaded at the world around me, and honestly fed up with some of the old losers who passed themselves off as “fighters against the system”.  I had been in the hip-hop scene since forever (seemingly at least), my family jokes that I was born with a beat pulsating in my blood. You’d be surprised if I told you that it was my family that first nurtured my artistic inclinations.

Both of my parents were irreligious to a fault. They were overeducated (a little pompous) intellectuals who had a passion for books, new-ageism, and music. My father, despite being the son of a devout sheikh in Morocco, proudly declared himself an agnostic a long time ago. My mother who was a fraction more conservative in her beliefs; taught me enough about Islam to impart her own deep seated resentment of the religion, and then proceeded to devote herself to making sure I fulfilled my every potential.

Despite their very “Haram” upbringing of me, they taught me well. They focused on imparting principles of honesty, ethics, and justice. When my mom noticed my creative temperament as a young child, she immediately enrolled me in the best music, dance, and art classes. I grew up playing classical piano, my fingers effortlessly improvising off Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, and Liszt. I also picked up guitar, drumming, and even flirted with the saxophone during my Jazz obsession era.

I tried ballet when I was much younger, but excelled in modern dance. I tiptoed around fine arts, and finessed my tunes with vocal lessons.

My parents sent me to elite arts private schools all my life. By the time I was 15, I had collected too many trophies to count, winning almost every local performance competition I was involved in.

It was in high school that I really went underground, to uncover the entrancing world of hip-hop, spoken word, poetry slams, and fresh sounds. Unlike the stark pristine walls of my elite education, that scene was garish, loud, raw and passionate. The voices were “real”, rich, spontaneous, emotive, coloring vibrant canvasses with broad strokes of genuine pain, bursts of outrage, and creative tussles with their identities. Artists of all kinds, backgrounds, colors melted into a riotous rhythm striking freedom notes with a high pitched fervor.

For the first time in my short life, I was able to move beyond a distant intellectual flirtation with my muse into a real struggle with my soul to articulate who I was. I collected fragments of my fractured identity, pieced together tapestries of my incongruent journeys, serenaded my deep seated (real and perceived) suffering, and blew apart crowds with the practiced ease of one who had spent her whole life in one huge extended performance.

That scene got old fast though. I traveled around the country going from slam to slam dunk; enjoying the circles, popularity, and unfettered lifestyle my co-performers chose to live.

By the time I was a sophomore in college, the whole scene was just played out. The circles were small and claustrophobic, aside from a few exceptional people the artists were inadvertently the same, and most had no idea what they really were “rebelling” against. My world had become one big cliché. And I could almost predict the next tired line that would spew out of yet another overzealous directionless ‘revolutionary-wanna-be’ pot-head.

“I bet you some of these people can’t even spell revolutionary” I joked with my good friend TQ.

Now TQ was something else. Not only was he an amazing original thinker, fine artist, and exceptional performer; he put all his effort, talents, and money into the betterment of inner city youth. He had started a community theater/recreation center where kids could go to after school instead of hanging out on the streets. He mobilized the youth, urging them to find their calling from a very young age. He paired up professionals with teens in a big bro/sis mentorship programs. He worked with the city in raising funds towards improving the state of the neighborhood. That brother probably slept a couple of hours a night at the most. His life was geared towards what he called “applying the arts” and “actually walking the talk.” But I can tell you this much, people like TQ were very rare.  

As the years slid through my fingers, I also noticed that I was coming in contact with older artists who were stuck in the same place they were about two decades ago. They performed by night, slept by day, and worked odd jobs to support their “cause”. The causes were of course eternally vague, and in the ambiguity of their existence, they simply subsisted as “starving” artists wearing their poverty as emblems of their resistance in the struggle within the “belly of the beast”.

I am sorry if I sound really jaded and overly critical. I used to be thick with most of those brothers (and a few non-catty sisters). I guess everything gets old after a while, even so called freedom.

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Tia

May 2002
Mombasa, Kenya 

Fatima is refusing to tell her story until I finish mine. I am really done, and I don’t know what more she wants me to say. She pushes me with questions about Sahar:“So how did you feel when you first met her?”

I don’t know why she asks, she should know too well. Fatima herself was in a polygamous relationship (the word is more accurately polygyny) .With her permission, I might be able to offer you a transcript of our interview. She was one of my “research case studies” turned into a life long friend.

It’s been so long, yet that moment when I first (and finally) met Sahar is forever crystallized in my brain. In the beginning I adamantly refused to meet her, why torture myself even more? Jamaal begged me, for the sake of the kids, and for him.

“Life would be much easier if you got to know each other, just give her a shot, she is an amazing woman Mashaallah.” 

“You mean life would be much easier for you Jamaal. I don’t think I can do it…” 

But then my curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to meet this woman who tore out Jamaal’s soul from mine. I wanted to get to know her personality, her quirks, her strengths to glean how she dazzled him in ways I knew I never could. I had to meet her, for the sake of my own sanity.

That day I woke up early, thoroughly cleaned the house, caught up on all the laundry, and prepared an elaborate feast (no one could dare say I was a bad wife!).

I then sat my three children down and explained to them that they were going to meet their “new mommy.”

“What does that even mean?” Kareem, at 11, was genuinely baffled.

“Just that Abbu is marrying another woman” I replied in a quiet restrained voice.

“Why would he do that mama, why would he want another woman!” Mona at 10 was the feisty one.

“It happens Mona. He is doing this with the best of intentions. He just wants to help her, guide her, and Inshaallah we will all be better people because of this”

 “Guide her to where? Mama what about us? What about you?” 

“I am fine sweety. You know I am a strong woman. I can handle her” I even managed a false lighthearted laugh.

Ibraheem, my little introverted 8 year old, was quiet.

Before we even finished the “big talk” which should have been conducted by Jamaal really (but he been a little preoccupied lately), the door bell rang.

I checked my hair and makeup in the foyer mirror, not recognizing the woman staring back at me. The last time I wore makeup was on my wedding day, and I had never spent that much time spraying and teasing my hair into disciplined curls. But I couldn’t possibly meet her looking all tore up.

When I opened the door my bright practiced smile was frozen into place. My heart stopped its irregular drumming, deciding instead to plummet deep into my depths, and my voice died somewhere in my throat.

She was stunning.

I stared and stared looking passed her impossibly smooth porcelain skin (tanned just so); her big doe eyes, her perfectly sculpted nose, perched atop gorgeous full lips. I tried looking passed her long endless legs, hip hugging jeans, cute little piercing accentuating her flat abs, her pink top casually falling off her right shoulder, and long curls of radiant dyes (Jamaal let her go out like that?!). I tried and tried to search for that flaw, that one thing that would grant me a bit of comfort, but my search was in vain. She epitomized the phrase- Mediterranean beauty.

Sahar stepped up and tried to offer me an awkward hug, saying “Assalamo alaykum” with the tone of someone unused to giving that particular salutation. I noticed she was a little nervous and that calmed me somewhat.

Jamaal jovially followed her, calling the kids to meet Sahar.

“You will absolutely adore Mona, she is a sweet heart. MONA COME HERE AND GIVE SALAAM TO YOUR NEW UMMI” 

I saw a flicker of a shadow pass through Sahar’s face on being called “Ummi” so soon (what else did she expect marrying a married man with kids?!)  

“I don’t care who you are, and why you stole my abbu! But I will NEVER call you ummi do you understand? NEVER?!” Mona surprised all of us with her outburst.

“Mona what kind of greeting are you giving our special guest? Apologize NOW!” Her father thundered.

“NO!” Mona screamed running upstairs and banging the door to her room.

“She’s just a little surprised, please forgive her rudeness” I was used to being the diplomat in that house.

“Oh Please, I totally understand, I would have probably done worse” Sahar assured me “I like her spunk, so that’s Mona huh?”

“Astaghfirullah, you try and try with these children but can never control the outcome!” Jamaal was visibly upset.

“It’s okay J. Don’t worry about it.”  

I couldn’t believe my ears! J? Who was she calling J?

Sahar turned to Kareem and Ibraheem who were hovering around torn between wanting to run upstairs while still glued to the gorgeous spectacle in front of them.

“Hey handsome” she nodded at Kareem who was blushing furiously.

“hey.”  

“And you must be the serious scholar around here, come here man, wussup?” Ibraheem offered a timid smile.

“Why don’t we all go sit down and get to know each other a little better” Jamaal quipped, relieved that his sons at least did not let him down.

“I’ll go serve some food”

I fled into the safe haven of my kitchen trying hard to swallow the hot lump that threatened to sear a hole through my throat. “Bismillah, Bismillah, Bismillah” I invoked God’s name again and again, knowing that nothing short of Divine Intervention would keep holding the pieces of me together.

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Jamaal C.Brown

Washington DC

May 1990

Mashaallah I am so proud of Aisha. She is truly a pious and amazing wife. Her reward can only be measured by the heights of Jannah she will earn Inshaallah. This woman, through my very Ridha (happiness/contentment) with her, shall be rewarded by her own Queenly throne in the oasis of Firdaws (the highest paradise).

I expected so much worse from her, Astaghfirullah (may Allah forgive me for my ill thoughts). When she met Sahar, she blew me away with the level of effort that she took to welcome her sister in Islam into our home. The house was noticeably cleaner, the children were well prepped (aside from that Mona, may Allah guide her!) and the food was so delicious!

I was so proud of the fact that she took time to make herself look beautiful too. I mean she will always be beautiful in my eyes, but the makeup and hair, that was something else.

Mashaallah, her level of  Imaan (Faith) astounds me over and over again. She is naturally so selfless, and giving, I just pray that Sahar would be inspired by her example. To me, Aisha will always be like Khadija (the first wife of the Prophet (Peace be upon him). Even we he married other wives, long after her death, he still loved her very much. Of course Aisha is not dead, Alhamdullillah, and I am no where near the Prophet (Peace be upon him) but I am striving to implement his Sunnah (example) in my life.

The Prophet (Peace Be upon him) said 'The person who revives my Sunnah at a time when there is a religious degeneration in my Ummah will receive the reward of 100 martyrs.' 

Subhana Allah our deen is so amazing and offers us many ways towards Falah (success). I am really struggling to revive his Sunnah, especially in the land of Kuffar who tell us that marrying a second woman is illegal yet they are quite okay letting men have affairs and mistresses! Astaghfirullah! What could be further from the path of righteousness. Who is better a man, one who is willing to take care of a woman, provide for her, without violating his first wife’s rights, or one that wants to be shady, deceitful, and irresponsible in all his affairs? 

I vowed when I married Sahar I will always be just to both of them. I have to divide my love equally between them, my time, attention and focus. Of course in the beginning it is understandable, that I will need a bit more time with Sahar to catch her up. But Inshaallah, they will both have nothing to want for. I will provide for them in my Haal (self) and Maal (wealth) and their patience will be rewarded by paradise itself.

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Tia

I stayed up late into that fateful night, long after Jamaal and Sahar had left. When my children went to bed, I locked the door to my room, stripped naked and stared at myself in the mirror. My flabby rolling stomach mocked me, my drooping breasts just looked sad, the dimples in my thighs smiled painfully back, while the overall short chunkiness of my frame bore a shameful witness to everything I lacked.

I had never considered myself ugly, as a matter of fact, anyone else who grew up in my shoes would have probably lugged around a whole mess of insecurities. But in Jamaal's eyes I was always safe, loved, protected. He had grasped my body with a firm gentleness, tracing my curves in adoration, he had even remarked his preference was voluptuousness. I had always imagined I was much prettier than the alien overweight stranger staring back at me in that mirror.

My beloved's gaze had blinded me from all my obvious flaws…when that gaze turned to behold one much more beautiful, I realized for the first time ever how ugly I truly was.

That night I wept and wept and wept, shedding all the illusions I had of our love, of our forever-ness, of the fantasy I held of fused souls and shared dreams, of celestial existences and distant beginnings…That night was the first time I ever tasted the heart shattering anguish of being an earthly woman.

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Sahar

May 1990

“Here’s my contract” 

“Contract? What for?”

“Marriage contract. I will only agree to be married to you following those conditions. You have to sign it and it’s a done deal”

“But sister, this is really unnecessary…” “No, it’s not. Do you want to marry me?”

“Of course I do. You know I have never wanted anything more”

“Then you will sign it.”  

Jamaal looked at the 10 typed pages with unbelieving eyes. I wasn’t going to mess around. My number one condition was that he wouldn’t marry anyone else after me. I know, that is the definition of hypocrisy, but Aisha was cool with it. I checked with her before I even said yes. I am not. That is the essential difference. I can deal with being the cuter, younger, ‘fresher’ wife; I would die before I find myself competing with yet another younger version of myself.

There were other things in that contract of course. He would not force me to cover myself until I am good and ready. I didn’t know enough about Islam to start hiding behind veils. He expressed his interest in marrying me the way I was, I made clear to him that he shouldn’t be expecting me to conform to his expectations of what a wife should be. I am who I am; I wasn’t about to change that yet.

The other deal breaker was my own separate space. I needed my own apartment; I would even pay for my way (which it looked like I would have to because his meager income couldn’t support all of us).

And lastly, I was not going to give up my music, art and performances just because he says so. My point was not to be stubborn, but to learn Islam for what it really is, to distinguish religion from culture, and only with a clear understanding of what I was committing to would I embrace and practice it. I wasn’t about to do things in blind following, sheep mentality manner just because I married the Imam. My parents taught me much better than that.

Needless to say, my mom was aghast at my decision.

“Why Sahar? I thought I raised you better than that!”

“It’s okay mom. I really like him, I think I may even love him. Beneath that Sheikh exterior is a really sincere soul. Besides he is the only man I have met with a real spark, he just does it to me in ways I can’t explain.” 

“But honey, he is married! Why would you willingly walk into that relationship? He has children. Do you realize the magnitude of the responsibility you are taking on?”  

“I know, I am ready for it. There’s nothing out there for me, mère. I am tired of being a beautiful freak show for men to check out. I am ready to settle, do something meaningful, live my life” 

“Baby, you don’t know what you are talking about” My mom’s face was streaked with anguished tears. I could understand why she was upset, but it’s not like I had just announced I was a drug addict or something! Sheesh.

“Père?” I implored with my doe eyed pout that I knew he could never resist.

“I am with your mom Sahar. You don’t know this man. He may be a crazy fanatic who wants to turn you into one of his little harem women” 

“Oh my God! You are talking like a white man! I mean you should know that not all religious men are crazy. Grand-père was the best man that ever graced this earth and you know it!”  

“My dad was a different breed. They don’t make them like that anymore. Sweetheart, is there a shortage of men out there? Why this sudden interest in marriage. You have your whole life ahead of you. Why don’t you take a break and go to Europe to mull it over huh? I will have your ticket ready tomorrow; go spend sometime in our Madrid Villa that should relax you a bit.” 

“I don’t want relaxation. Père, I need to get serious with my life. I am tired of the banality of my own existence. I want to feel that closeness to God that Jamaal talks about. I want to taste what it’s like to be guided by much higher principles, to discipline myself for something beyond the crowds’ applause. I want that spiritual transformation that would melt all the layers of coldness, cynicism, and voids I have accumulated over the years. I want to be real, to feel real, to appreciate reality in a much larger way and all of that can only come from being in touch with the source of it all: God” 

My mom wailed “My own daughter wants to become a Muslim! What have we done? Why oh why?”

My dad and I both looked away suppressing our smiles. Gosh, despite all her intellectual pretensions my mother can be the queen of melodrama!

“Being Muslim is really not the worst thing that could have happened to me you know?” 

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