Lightness of Being…

“Every single one of you needs to come over here and see what my beautiful girl is doing! Come here, come on!”

Her dad gushed proud of his little princess.

It was Ramadhan in a stifling hot tropical island. To pass the long languid afternoon, her brothers and cousins were watching a movie in the family room; Reem was cooped up in what would be called the “den” but was just really an extension-room added to the side of the house reading the Quran.

In front of the surly gazes of her peers her dad flourished a 50 shilling note (a small fortune in those days) and awarded her exemplary behavior.

Reem was too humiliated for words.

Her father went on to lecture the rest of the pack on righteousness, the holy month of fasting, and the necessity to reap the maximum rewards during this time. 

“Reem is less than half your age and look at her!”

She wanted to die on the spot! She felt like such a hypocrite standing there receiving praises. Of course her siblings didn’t have to work as hard, they were innocent!

Since the “first episode” marked her, Reem became obsessed with the concept of redemption and salvation.

She began actually paying attention in her Madrassa classes and implementing every piece of religious advice she came across (regardless of whether it was authentic or not).

Everyone else could get away with the minimum, she needed a scrubbing that no soap and water could ever purify.

“When you say Subhana Allah Al Adhim Wabihamdihi (Glory and Praises belong to Allah the Great- loose translation) 100 times every morning and evening; all your sins will be forgiven; even if they are as vast as the ocean foam” The Muallim (Madrassa teacher) promised.

“ALL of them?” Reem asked her eyes widened, heart beating.

“ALL”

“Even the worst evil type of sin?” Desperate for assurance.

“Even the worst evil type of sin” he nodded sagely.

“What if you kill someone” Surely murder was not as bad as what she was doing? Or was it?

“Even if you kill someone”

“What if you kill 100 people?” One murder is debatable, but surely 100 murders is much much worse, right?

“Let me tell you a parable that will help you in understanding Allah’s vastness of Mercy…” The Muallim proceeded to tell them the story of the man who killed 99 people and repented (or something to that effect).

Reem woke up every morning and fervently recited “Subhana Allah Al Adhim wa Bihamdihi”; carefully counting and recounting 100 times; to ensure her sins were forgiven.

But surely that was not enough?

She collected other gems; hoarding salvation information and putting them in effect as soon as she heard them.

“If you read Surah Mulk (The chapter on Dominion) every night; you will not be punished in the grave”

Surah Mulk was added to the repertoire of daily purification.

“Surah Yaseen is the heart of the Quran”

Surah Yaseen was promptly memorized.

“Surah Waqiah prevents you from poverty”

She wasn’t concerned about poverty, but she went ahead and recited it everyday just in case it might help her along.

“Seeking refuge from Allah from all evil things three times each morning and night will keep evil at bay”

{-}

The last duah proved ineffectual at actually keeping evil at bay.

He came, and came back for more, each time poking her more, showing her more, lathering his big hands all over her body, drenching her in his distinct saliva stench, drowning her in the murky waters of shame, guilt, and terror, and nurturing the slimy creature crouched at the base of her soul to monstrous proportions.

She couldn’t shower enough, read Quran enough, pray enough to keep his stains off her body and soul.

She couldn’t pretend enough to keep the monster within tame, so she lashed out.

The more he assaulted her body; the sharper and longer her tongue grew.

The more she lashed out; the happier the creature within became, purring in satisfaction.

She fought with everyone and it was literally overnight that she went from being another unnoticed little kid in the house, to the excessively rude and negative pre-teen everyone loved to hate.

The ruder she became the more pummeling she received at the hands of ALL the grown ups at home.

She goaded the beatings, relishing in the physical pain that could stamp out her heart’s torture momentarily at least.

The beatings accelerated successively from a random slap, to excruciating pinches, to the hard knuckle-rapping on the head, to an assortment of belts and accessories, to sticks/branches (the more pliable and tender the better for effect),to long electric wires (the thinner the better in that case), to hangers (those were a joke actually), and in frustration of her refusal to shed remorseful tears the beater would eventually rain on the punches and kicks with a ferocity that would have probably killed a less sturdier human being.

Reem bore through all the beatings with a false bravado that no one could understand. She refused to apologize for any of her myriad misdeeds (it could be as petty as looking an elder insolently in the eye or as grave as refusing to run an errand for an older sibling).

“Does she actually like to get beat up?” The grown ups asked each other.

“We are going to teach her someday” And bent on squashing the little rebel in her they were, to no avail.

Her mom tried to protect her at times, beat her to try and get sense into her head at others, and simply raised her hands to pray for her (all the time) for only God could guide whom He wills.

{-}

Karrissa was eventually fired two years later for some other reason.

He didn’t even think twice about what “he had done” to Reem. For one, in his culture girls her age were considered prime for marriage, some were already running households as maids stuck in a different world (and some of those were being raped by their own employers). This little brat couldn’t even lift a finger around the house; of course the “princess” was too young, and after all, wasn’t that his job? 

Besides, she had to learn some day; he was only giving her a “trailer” or preview of some sorts into the world of adulthood.

Second, he was stuck in a crappy under paying housekeeping job with too many families squeezed into one household. They treated him like a lesser human, with their typical Arab arrogance. The women didn’t even bother covering their heads around him, for his manhood was somehow a non-issue in their eyes. He once had dreams when he was young, but they died a long time ago. He was pushing 40, stuck in an eternal hell on earth, scrubbing filthy floors and cleaning large-sized lingerie for the lazy obese women he worked for.

So what he sprinkled a little fun into his thankless job routine?

When he was fired, he sprinted out to another neighborhood hoping the next household he ended up in had lots of little girls, even younger!

“Maybe I can get two to touch each other…” he thought with suppressed glee as he was swallowed into a dark narrow alley way.

{-}

“Responses to childhood sexual abuse vary with each survivor. Some have little outward manifestation of it and this of course depends on the environment and situation; others develop personality disorders or hyper sexual activities or depression, eating disorders, alcoholism and such…”

“Dr. Gupta, with all due respect, I think you are focusing too much on what happened way in the past. I think I may be one of those women that just didn’t get touched by it, that much…”

“Hmmm…”

“Look, I know I acted out a bit on the sexual side, but whatever, I was bound to do that anyway. I have tons of cousins who have done much worse than I ever did, and they were never abused!”

“Okay, good. So you have come to terms with the fact that the fault still lies squarely on the abuser’s shoulders?”

“I have my own thoughts.”

“Let me put it this way, does it make you angry that people get away with abusing little children?”

“Of course it does, but not enough to make me postal! I mean people do much more evil things everyday…”

“Of course…So tell more about that night…what were you doing before? How did it all start?”

“I was hanging out with a couple of friends in my apartment. We decided to go to DC and hang out, you know listen to some Jazz whatever…and then everything went down from there, like these weird coincidences started to happen, I got separated from my friends and ended up drifting from one spot to another, and then ended up in this guy’s apartment and he turned out to be the Devil himself…”

“The devil?” The annoying skeptic eyebrow went up again.

“Yes. The Devil” Reem pushed on, she had to let it out, try to make sense of that night before the memories dissipated under the foggy cloud of medications she was currently enveloped in.

“We had a talk, and I was so mad at him! I told him why? Why get us all kicked out of Jannah? He laughed and said because we were not fit to be in Heaven. Heaven was for the bright of spirit, Angelic of heart, for the Passionate lover and acquiescent soul…not us, little sniveling hypocritical children of Adam, attempting every short cut to get in, and banking on His Mercy the whole time…”

“I actually agreed with him in secret of course” Reem plunged on not giving Dr. Gupta a chance to interrupt. “But I fought him, I told him I may not make it to Heaven yet, but I will die before letting him lay his hand on me. No, I was not  at that level of despair yet. He actually helped me in a weird way… ”

“How did the devil help you?”

“He helped me realize that I had a little feeble ray of light within me that was powerful enough to reject his overtures. If I was strong enough to say No to the Devil himself, then there may be hope for me after all” Reem stopped herself from adding “regardless of the many times I screamed Yes before…”

She continued “I also saw clearly for the time that he was my personal challenge. I swore that night, in front of him, that I would Never end up in hell with him. I would NOT give him the satisfaction of giving him company in his wretched eternity. I was going to prove to him personally; that I can make it…i will make it Inshaallah.”

“Pardon me I am curious what did the Devil look like?”

“He was Ethiopian” Reem answered.

“Ethiopian?” Dr. Gupta smiled the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“Yes. How is that surprising? Ethiopians are the oldest humans on earth”

“But of course…” Dr. Gupta assented.

“Shut up. I know you think I’m crazy so whatever.”

“Reem you need to spend less time proving how Not crazy you are, and more actually getting to the bottom of your issues. You think the other patients here are any different from you? Yes, some are suffering more, but you sound as absurd as someone who walks into a hospital with a cut finger and announces loudly to everyone ‘I DO NOT HAVE CANCER!”

“This is different…”

Dr. Gupta interrupted her for the first time ever “No it is not. Mental illnesses are caused by chemical imbalances in the brain in same manner Diabetes is caused by a malfunctioning of Insulin levels in the body. The root causes may be different and more obscure in Mental disorders, but the base is the same. For some people a change of lifestyle and therapy is all they need; others may require the help of medication to get them on the road…but they are all normal human beings with regular lives and are just struggling in one aspect or another.”

Reem was deeply engrossed in her fingers, studying them, turning them around, and massaging them. She opened and closed her mouth but nothing came out. She thought of the crazy people in Mombasa, the ones little kids threw rocks at; the ones who never showered, talked to themselves, were scary as hell, and could run as fast as lightning for retribution. Surely he wasn’t talking about those too? Maybe American crazy people were different, more sophisticated. She tried to stifle the laughter within.

“Reem?” His voice was gentle.

“Yes?”

“Do me a favor…for next time, try to get to know at least one or two other patients. You know, it doesn’t have to be anything deep, just their names, where they are from, what they do…”

“Are you serious? I can’t talk to them?”

“Yes you can and you will.”

“That Tamara will kill me before I am done asking her name!”

“It doesn’t have to be Tamara, there’s 100 other patients in the ward”

She huffed.

“Reem?”

“What?”

“Do I have your word, you’ll try at least?”

“Fine I will!” He was exasperating her, how was this pointless exercise going to help her? But as she shut the door with dramatic flourish much to his amusement; she couldn’t help but feel a rare warmth of respect for her healer.

{-}

{To be continued}

To read more about the Devil, check out Saly’s “Devil’s Advocate”  (Warning: Read at your own discretion you might fall in love with him!)