Lightness of Being…

Tia
 

Washington DC

September 1991 

I had just been invited to a clandestine sister’s group at the Mosque. The group was a support network for sisters in Polygynous relationships. Mine was no secret though, and Jamaal being the Imam guaranteed that the whole community was to find out of my plight.

It was a small tight knit group of about ten sisters, ranging in age and ethnicities. It felt like I was attending an AA meeting. “Hi, I am Aisha, and I am in a polygynous relationship” 

Everyone was really sympathetic though and had enough sense to know not to push me in divulging more than I needed to. I couldn’t believe it; I, who had counseled women on relationships, who had long insisted that good men do exist, that love was the natural order of things; had joined the “first wives club” or what was called “Sisters in Support of the Sunnah Group.”  

The unofficial leader of the group was very upbeat about the whole concept: “Sister you are a fortunate woman. To be chosen to participate in the revival of the Sunnah is a privilege. This is your chance to prove that you are good Muslimah wife. This test is the ultimate one, meant to bring out your patience, improve your character, and make you a stronger Muslim. This is the reminder you sorely needed that it’s Allah we are to worship not our husbands.”

 None of the sisters had much sympathy for Sahar either. She had been coming to the Mosque, draped in a too sheer scarf, half her hair showing, too tight pants, her small shirts, and insisted on sitting on the Men’s side.

I don’t know what she was trying to prove.

For starters everyone knows most of the sisters go to the Mosque, not to listen to recycled Khutbas (sermons), but to connect with each other. We exchange stories, trade woes, and cluck sympathetically at each other’s plights. We allow our kids some freedom to play and run around, while we breathe for a couple of moments, taking solace in the embrace of adult conversation and sisterly empathy.

On her first day at the mosque ever, Sahar sauntered in with her characteristic nonchalant gait of one used to being stared at, took one look at chaos on our side, and headed over to the brother’s side. She sat at the back, raised her hand ostentatiously to ask questions in a voice too loud and strident, much to the consternation of the brothers.

The second day, a huge opaque partition was set up on the brother’s side just for her. She bypassed it, and sat right in front of the partition, even closer to the brothers and continued asking questions and challenging the Imam (Jamaal) on many of his assumptions.

It was almost funny to see Jamaal placed in such an awkward position. He secretly negotiated with Sahar, compromised with her, and tried to make her understand how “things were done in the Masjid.”

 In public, he mollified the brothers by shaking his head and saying things like “Women! The fitna is just too much”. Some brothers agreed with him and some suggested drastic measures to “put her in her place”. None of which Jamaal followed of course, knowing full well Sahar was not the type to be put anywhere she didn’t want to be.

Other brothers wondered out loud about the permissibility of violating the law of the land, for some dubious Islamic goal. Heated discussions ensued about upholding the Shariah, position of women, and the role of the Imam.

Sahar had set the Masjid ablaze with her tantalizing presence.

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                                                Sahar                                          

May 1992

On the surface, it seems like Jamaal and I are constantly fighting. It’s funny that the very reason we got attracted to each other was the chemistry generated from our differences. There are certain things that are crystal clear to me: Belief in one God, turning to Him for prayer, reflection, solace and worship; and sharing with humanity our talents, charitable deeds, wealth, and blessings.

Everything else seems subject to interpretation. Jamaal of course is careful to tread on the most conservative end of the spectrum, while I challenge him on why it can’t be otherwise. I would have no problem if he could be consistent in his arguments, showed me the evidence, and rationally explained to me why things were the way they are. But in most cases, he seemed confused, his arguments mixed up, laced with out-of-context Hadiths and Fatwas, heavy on the thinly veiled overtones relegating me to hellfire for my Kaffir thinking.

“You know what, unlike you; I don’t have a problem with my brain. I don’t think God does either, otherwise, He wouldn’t have endowed me with rationality and explicitly encouraged me to use it. All this is in the Quran!!”

“You don’t understand, you can’t use your Kaffir modes of critique for the Deen. The deen requires that you accept some things, even if they don’t make sense. You see the problem with the Kaffir way is to make the ego/brain the highest altar, we have Revelation, and the brain/ego has to submit to it. It is as simple as that” 

“Revelation was sent to compliment rationality. How are we supposed to even understand revelation, let alone apply it to our specific time, without reflecting on it, and thinking about it?” 

“Only those qualified can think through it, not you and I. We are just students, we have to…”
 

“Nah, you gotta hold up, you are turning Catholic on me now! Wussup with that?” 

“Catholic?” 

“You mean we have hierarchy in Islam? I can’t think for myself, so I gotta go to a scholar? Show me where it says in the Quran that Revelation is only specified for the Sheikh?” 

“You misunderstand Sahar, if you and every Moe out there goes off on their own opinions, what will happen to the deen? Who will set the standard? It is dangerous, and we will end up splintered and lost as an Ummah” 

“I disagree, if we knew how to disagree, and ethically did so with the intent of reaching the truth, we would end up with a plethora of opinions, and from that struggle a healthy Ummah with a sharper intellect would be born!” 

We fought at all times, during our once-a-week dinners with the larger family, before-during-and-after sex, breakfast, dinner, at the Mosque, outside it. But it was a good healthy type of fighting, none of that nasty, personal attacks kind of crap.

Jamaal was actually a good sport. He would know when he has been defeated in a particular round, and would retreat, read voraciously and come back refreshed with more arguments.

I did my own readings too, except while I turned to the “deviant modern day” scholars that he despised; he waved the “old dead scrolls from six feet under sheikhs of yester-years” that I just couldn’t stand. They don’t live anymore for a reason; they don’t know what we are struggling with now! Jamaal insists that our deen is universal and has no time and space, any Fatwa from 1400 years ago is good enough for us now.

I counter, God is universal, humans are necessarily blinded by their own limited scope, time, ideas, and their verdicts can not be transcendent of time & space.

As you can see, our arguments had no way of ever being reconciled. The beauty of it all though, was that we allowed ourselves to be engaged, to speak to the “other” and to be shifted a little out of our comfort zones and most importantly when a certain truth became undeniable we both relented our original positions.

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Tia

May 1992

“Oh My God, those two get on my last nerve!” Mona hissed as we were preparing for our weekly dinners with the “fighting duo”. I just smiled.

Mona had been relentless in the cold war she preempted on Sahar. She insisted on one word answers, would barely finish dinner, before she would interrupt (the ongoing argument of the day) to ask to be excused, and head back to her fort.

I was touched by her loyalty. But I also noticed that while Sahar was not looking, she would stare at her surreptitiously with a conflicted mixture of awe and envy. I noted how Mona would fix her posture on the table emulating Sahar’s impeccable bearing. I saw how she laced Sahar’s slang in her speech, with a novice’s relish. I was also disturbed that the last fight we had about whether she could highlight her hair or not; at 12 she was a bit too young to mess around with her natural curls, I was adamant about that.

Kareem hung on Sahar’s every word, but had still been unable to formulate a proper sentence in her presence without stuttering (the boy had never stuttered once in his entire life!) and blushing. I kept worrying about his hormones and whether he was going to develop some sort of unholy crush on her.

Ibraheem, as usual, was guarding his emotions and opinions.

In my mind, I forced myself to think of Sahar as my younger wayward distant relative. I treated her with forced courtesy, I was not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she tore my insides into flames every single time I saw her. I refused to move beyond the pleasantries with her. The weekly dinners were torturous for all of us (at least me), but Jamaal and Sahar were happily indifferent in the midst of their endless debates.

Sometimes I would watch them in wonder. They were like two galaxies colliding, leaving in their wake weeping milky ways and confused starry mists.

I had never challenged Jamaal in my life. I had never questioned that his world view wasn’t the ultimate “truth”. To see how Sahar would sometime trap him in his own logic, was dispiriting for me in a weird way. I felt like I was not only losing my husband and best friend, but the only compass I had for direction in my life. I just couldn’t trust his judgment with the simple innocence of yester years anymore.

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 Sahar

Some month, 1995

I love running. I don’t even call what I do running, more like a crazy mix of sprinting, jogging, walking, trotting, sprinting, jogging et al.

When I start out, I do my normal stretch and warm up routine, and then I move on to a light jog. The initial onset of blood rushing, adrenaline pumping gust, gives me a push that fills my lungs with air and soon my feet are not even touching the ground. I am soaring, lungs expanding, wings unfolding, thoughts scattering like a thousand butterflies in the wind. I am galloping over the mundane, touching indescribable heights, and soon enough with suddenness I can never get used to; my wings are clipped, my lungs contract, and I am thrust back on the ground, gasping for breath, side hurting, barely willing my legs to move.

Meanwhile, the well paced disciplined runner, whom I had just streaked by moments ago; comes trotting past his glum smile hidden from my view. I used to flick him off just for good measure, but I am Muslim now, I got to behave.

I would start again, slowly, walking, jogging, sprinting, flying, falling…I could go on forever trapped in that endless cycle, save my legs give up. They simply refuse to go on, tired of being unwilling combatants in the war waged between my will power, lungs, and imagination. I just love the natural high I get from it all.

I asked Aisha to join me to which she tersely replied “I hate working out”. I would really like us to be friends. I know given our situation, it is hard to do so. But we could be allies; we don’t have to be barely-civil-enemies. I am cool with her. I just hope that one day; she can find it in her heart to forgive me for stealing her man.eeeks!

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Tia

Some month, 1995

My bed is cold

I am lonely

 Cold icy fingers are choking my soul 

I pray 

Like a madwoman 

To avoid falling into  

The laughing lip of insanity… 

On the days he is supposed to be here, Jamaal is either late or “too caught up in his work” to make it. We don’t make love anymore, more accurately it is sex we don’t do. Can you make love when you have no more ingredients in store?

We don’t communicate either. He asks me about the children, I tell him they are fine. He mutters about needing to spend more time with them. I agree. Jealousy and resentment had given way to a numbing coldness within me. I just couldn’t allow myself to feel anymore in order to maintain my grip on sanity.

In the beginning when he touched me, I thought I would go crazy with grief. I wondered if he was bored with me, guessing how much palpable electricity they generated in bed. I could smell Sahar’s laughing scent lingering on his collar bone; and could feel the weight of the obligatory caresses he dutifully bestowed upon my jiggling curves.

Our “sessions” would take place in pitch darkness, always furtive, short and perfunctory. I would lay awake long after he fell asleep, biting back my tears, clawing my pain, and fighting to contain my loathing from seething out of my pores.

The charade didn’t last too long, thankfully, and soon there was no hovering anticipation, awkward moments, or unasked questions. He would come in, read a little and sleep in his corner of the bed.

At times, I would wake up a little before dawn, and notice that we had somehow found each other in our sleep, our bodies interlinked with remembrances of past intimacy. A casual arm thrown here, a leg over there, our breaths dancing to the some ancient forgotten rhythm; I would lie still and close my eyes imagining for that brief moment that nothing had ever changed.

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                                        Fatima                                               
Mombasa, 2000

Interview Journal  

I am ugly and that is why he had to marry another woman. I know Tia says I am not, that somehow my big round face is “adorable”; my giant out of proportion nose has “character”, the untamable broom-like bush on my head actually passes for “good hair”; but I am ugly plain and simple and I am okay with it.

At least, I didn’t end up like Musa the cripple; Chuna the Cross eyed or Sudi the insane. Tia thinks it’s horrible that we can name people by their “handicap”; but there is nothing wrong with it. When I say Musa, people will ask “Which Musa?” There are too many Musas around! But Musa the cripple, removes all those unnecessary questions.

Tia is a “mzungu” (white) and we all know they are all clueless.

My earliest memory of my childhood was when a guest came over and politely said “awww…she is so cute”; my mom quickly cut her down to size “Who Fatima? Please you don’t have to be nice, she is ugly and we all know it!” 

As I was growing, women would shake their heads and wonder if I would ever find a man to marry me.

I was never good in school either, so I couldn’t hide behind my books to substitute brains for what I don’t have. My father pulled me out of school before I could figure out whether I was smart or not anyway. He did so; because he found out I had a habit of taking out my scarf on the way to school and stuffing it in my bag. I just couldn’t understand why an ugly person had to cover up? No one would ever be attracted to me, what was I supposed to be hiding?  My father beat me and beat me and decided that was the last day for school. It’s all for the best anyway, too much books would make you a little out of whack up there, everyone knows that, I mean just look at the Professor!

I didn’t get married fast either. I was pushing 28, a time when most people (including myself) had decided I was a spinster already. I was secretly glad not to be bothered by a husband, children and all that added stress of what to feed them and whatnot.

My grandmother, the matriarch of our family, decided my second cousin on my uncle’s in laws side who lived two doors down was going to marry me. I was mad at her, because he was the most eligible bachelor in the neighborhood. He was very handsome. Why should he marry me? But she had decided, and no one could question her, not even the unwilling groom.

I hated her for it. She had died a long time ago, and I still haven’t made a single prayer for her soul. Why did she have to torture my ugliness with his handsome face?

I didn’t care to make myself beautiful for him. While other women fussed for hours over doing their hair, lacing braids with Jasmine and Roses, I went to sleep. While they bore the pain of waxing their bodies every month, I was quite content using a razor (when I felt like it). They massaged scents into their hair and bodies, I couldn’t be bothered. They practiced their belly dancing moves to a precise beat, I mocked them in my usual languor.

The women shook their heads and wondered out loud when my husband would leave me. And when he (finally) married a second wife, they felt vindicated, as if their hard work was not for naught. The truth is, most of their husbands are messing around on them too, and that is no secret.

Tia doesn’t understand that Islam has little to do with it all. This is a small island, teeming with overpopulation, illiteracy, unemployment and drugs. People need an outlet, so they turn on each other like sharks in a small blood infested pool of water.

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    Tia

                                                           
Mombasa

May 2000

I know in some women’s eyes I could never be redeemed. Leaving my husband was like catapulting to the Western feminist model of thinking. It meant I dared to expect more out of life, that I had no Ridha (contenment) or Sabr (patience). No one was more shocked than Jamaal. I think he was just used to my unquestioning presence.

“What would I do without you?” He asked bewildered.

“Jamaal we have been out of each other’s lives for too long now. Didn’t you realize that?” 

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                                  Fatima                                               
Mombasa, 2000

 Interview Journal  

How did I react when I found out?

I am not crazy like that Badala woman who burnt herself to a crisp. I didn’t cry, or ask him why. I felt a little relieved actually. At least the anticipation was over. I told the other women, so they can relax too.

Honestly, I still haven’t felt a shred of jealousy for the other woman. Him and I, fought a lot, but for me it was more like participating in an obligatory rite of passage. I would give him a mean fight, pack up my bags, dirty sheets, tattered towels, nicked cups, cracked saucers, old flasks, mismatched spoons and even raggedy stove. I would camp out at my parents’ house and wait for three days. On the third day, he would come, begging me to come home, since the house would be a bit smelly and the kids (yes, we had three kids) would be howling for me to come back. I would go back.

Fighting was just routine for us. I didn’t feel anything for him. Ours is neither a marriage of emotions nor convenience. We were just trapped together, and we did what was necessary to push the days along.

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