Lightness of Being…

Only a couple of months after Karrissa left, Reem cornered one of her male cousins, whom she had nursed a crush on for what seemed like forever. She kissed his startled lips with a hot and sticky passion that surprised even her self.

At 10, she attempted to teach her female cousin (around the same age as her) what she had learned from her benevolent mentor, her cousin resisted with admirable courage much to Reem’s mortification.

By 11, Reem was trading “secrets” with her (much) older female cousins on relationships, dating and how to get away with it within their hawk-like culture. They trusted her, because she didn’t carry herself with a child’s comportment.

Many women had remarked that Reem was very mature for her age.

At 13, she was going “steady” with a neighborhood boy, which really meant they furtively kissed in dark narrow alley ways every moment they got.

By 15, she had devised 1001 ways to orgasm without penetration. Her and the aforementioned cousins (with their boyfriends) would skip school and sneak out to expensive beach hotels which were the only safe havens from the nosy older aunts prowling around town. They also started taking longer trips outside the island itself, to spend sometime in the obscure mainland away from any prying eyes.

Mombasa’s culture, morphing entrenched Arabic and African patriarchal beliefs on female virginity sprinkled with a dash of Islam, guarded their women with righteous zeal. A family’s reputation depended on their women’s uprightness. A single wayward female, could be the downfall of the whole clan (and that meant her sisters automatically became suspect candidates for marriage). Girls were sheltered from a young age, not being afforded any of the myriad freedoms boys had.

While boys got the chance to explore the island, swim without supervision (or worries of segregation), go to clubs (or discos as they were called), date “bad” girls from “bad” families, and do pretty much whatever they wanted to do; good girls were cooped up in the house learning the necessary cooking/sewing/cleaning skills being prepped for those (same) boys for marriage. Some girls hid behind books and pursued their education in hopes of later freedom. Others were cooped up with satellite dishes importing all manners of lust, Arab-Holy-Bolly-Wood TV, parading to them the very sensual pleasures of the world their families were denying them.

When asked about the apparent double standards, the elders merely shrugged. Girls had a precious commodity to guard- their hymens, which boys didn’t. There was an obvious test on the wedding night to check out a girl’s chastity; none existed for the man. The pressure to produce the evidence of virginity (blood) was so high, that women started a custom of bringing out the white sheet (sprinkled with holy virginal blood) to show the whole wedding party evidence of their good girl’s purity. That particular ritual was looked down upon by some families. Nevertheless, mother in laws armed with a couple of their close families would walk into the honeymooner’s room after “the deed was performed” to witness for themselves proof of their daughter in law’s virtuousness.

“Virginity experts” arose from within the culture that is women who were able to detect genuine “broken-hymen-blood” from other types of blood lest a girl was tempted to cheat her way out of that one.

There was pressure on the man too, to be able to perform “the deed” with the knowledge that the whole wedding party was right outside the door waiting for “news”. Some men would be afflicted with a temporary impotence that was sometimes quite readily “fixed” with heaps of nutmeg in warm milk known to stir his libido.

It wasn’t until many years later, that newly weds surprised the elders by sneaking out at night and going off to a hotel room. Or insisting on going off to their honeymoon that same night, and the elders simply had to accept the man’s word that she was wholesome and pure enough for their precious son.

Men did return “ruined” women on occasion, and that was any family’s worst nightmare to wake up on the day after the wedding and have their “tainted” princess back with no other prospects of ever getting married. The island was small and claustrophobic, with such an efficient way of spreading news globally that CNN could only be envious of.

The whole focus on a piece of flesh as symbolism for chastity, only taught girls ways to be ingenious with their “love making” sessions. The sacred and pragmatic reasons for abstaining from pre-marital relationships were all lost within the quagmire of a culture that insisted on holding on to symbols while neglecting the real meaning behind them.

Reem still managed to hold on to her religious obligations with a tenacity, which earned her a glowing reputation, despite her less than reputable veiled misdeeds. When she finally left her country at 16 for the free expanses of the Great American front, she heaved a sigh of relief. It was only a matter of time, before someone caught a whiff of her “real” nature.

Reem embraced lady liberty like a long lost twin sister; she had finally been freed.

{-}

“I heard you are quite the popular socialite in the ward now” Dr. Gupta smiled at her in greeting.

“Yeah well…” Reem didn’t know what to say. In following his advice, she was amazed at how deep and complex many of the patients were. Her willingness to listen, pleasantness, and non-judgmental attitude made her peers open up to her in ways they didn’t even do with their counselors. Some confused her with the staff, asking to speak to her during their therapy sessions. The staff had to patiently explain that Reem was also a patient; which served to only confound some patients more.

“I am really proud of you Reem!”

“Thanks.”

“So how is everything going? You look like you are really responding to your medication well…”

“I hate it and you know it. I am always drowsy and lethargic. I miss actually feeling. This numbness within is killing me! Even though I have the coveted permission to write, I can’t come up with anything. Every time I sit down, my thoughts are just too cloudy to pen the simplest of things…”

“Reem we had to stabilize you when you came. There was just no way to work with you in that state. Now that you are stable, we can work on reducing the medication. The worse thing you can do, is to get off them all at once, it will only disrupt your system really badly.”

“When can we start reducing them?”

“As soon as we come up with a proper diagnosis…you just got here Reem. I don’t want to jump to conclusions yet, although I have a strong inclination towards one direction.”

“What direction?”

“I don’t want to disclose that yet. Reem, I would like to refer you to one of my dear colleagues her name is Yasmin Said. She is a very well known certified counselor and psychotherapist. I think she will be great in understanding some of the issues you are dealing with and helping you through them.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Because, as a Psychiatrist my role is necessarily centered on medication management. I differ from many in my profession, since I do spend a lot more time with my patients. I don’t believe in simply writing out prescriptions. I think you need someone who is more qualified though, to work with you on a deeper level.”

“Dr. Gupta, I can’t work with a Muslim. I am sorry…I don’t want to be judged. I don’t think I will be comfortable disclosing to her, a fraction of what I told you” (she didn’t add, that she was hiding much from him already).

“Are you sure? You would be surprised; she is very open-minded and professional…”

“No. I am certain.”

“Okay, fine, are you comfortable with a male or female counselor?”

“Male.”

“Here, give Dr. Brown a call and set up an appointment, he will be perfect for you then.”

“Dr. Gupta can I ask you one more question?”

“Sure Reem go ahead”

“Were you here on the first night I was checked in?”

“No I wasn’t on duty that early morning”

“Did my file mention what I was raving about when I came in?”

“Yes.”

“Did I mention the molesting that night? Is that how you knew?”“Yes.”“Did I mention the other thing….the…”

She whispered the dreadful word to Dr. Gupta, who nodded slowly, his eyes full of compassion.

“Thanks, I just wanted to check whether you knew…”

Reem walked away, her step just a little lighter. There lies unspeakable solace in sharing even what we perceive to be the most heinous of crimes.

{-}

“Why aren’t you talking to me mama?”

“What is there to say?”

“I don’t know…it’s just this silence between us. I hate it when you visit, you don’t say anything to me! You never did!”

Reem had grown up with a conflicted mixture of awe and envy for her mother. Her mother was the sole provider of a household that consisted of many downtrodden family members. Unlike her peers, Samira (Reem’s mom), was sent to book keeping classes which afforded her a job as a clerk. She later took on more advanced accounting classes, and secured a cushy career as a Treasurer for a Non Profit organization. 

How she ended up marrying Reem’s dad, a very traditional man, Reem could never understand. Her mother was everything he was not; forward thinking, educated, and expansive in her Religious views. He was superstitious, self righteous and could not understand why Samira was not happy in the kitchen where she obviously belonged.

When they eventually divorced, Samira did not complain, weep, or wonder out loud what she did wrong to deserve him. She picked up the pieces of her family, continued working, and as the years went on opened her doors for any family member, friend, or wayfarer who needed temporary shelter (which ended up to be permanent most of the time). 

She never indulged in gossip, the women’s favorite past time. She attended communal events, did what she could to assist, but kept to herself as much as she could. Women felt snubbed but their censure was tempered by her generosity. She wouldn’t necessarily give women the hugs they craved, or even empathy they sought, but she would readily part with her money to help in their distress.

She was averse to wanton emotional displays and raised her kids in the same detached manner she ran her household.

The one time Reem had gone to embrace her, weeping, her mom commented in an uncomfortable voice “Baby, use some tissues, your tears are messing up my new silk blouse.”

{-}

Dr. Brown was a short plump jovial man, balding, round, and pink. His kind brown eyes matched the wisps of hair on the sides of his head; he had tufts for sideburns, as well as an attempted goatee straddling his chin.

“Hi. Raa-yy-m. It is good to meet you. I am Dr. Brown”

“It’s Reem” she tried to keep her voice civil despite the annoyance rising within. Surely, her name wasn’t that hard to pronounce.

“Oh. Sorry. Rem?”

“No. Reem it rhymes with Reel” She wasn’t going to let him get off easily.

“Oh okay. Pardon me, we don’t come across such exotic names too often”

Exotic?

Reem simply raised a sardonic eyebrow and kept her mouth shut.

“Well, let’s start over why don’t we.” He tried to cover up his discomfort with a loud bark-like laugh “Dr. Gupta is a great friend of mine and I am really happy to meet you. I just want you to know that there are no expectations in our sessions. You can talk about anything you want, we will explore any issue as deeply as you care to go. There is no pressure to tell me anything, and I will only offer specific counsel/direction if you ask for it.”

He went on to give her his standard opening mantra for new patients and waited patiently with an indulgent smile for Reem to begin.

“I…well…” she didn’t know where to start.“Do you know anything about Jinns?” She decided to take the plunge.

“Who?”

Reem sighed inwardly and gave him her definition.

“Oh you mean demons?”

“No they are different. We don’t believe in Demons in Islam…maybe as ‘bad’ Jinns…”

“So these Jinns are IZlamic mythical beings?”

She spent about 20 minutes explaining Jinns and the whole history of mankind from an Islamic perspective.

Dr. Brown really tried to understand, gave her ample opportunity to express herself, to talk without interruption or judgment.

Reem felt like she was spending more time explaining to him who she was, her history and culture, rather than delving into the details of her tortured soul and depths of gloom encapsulating her endless nights.

There were mountains between them and she neither had the energy nor will power to attempt to move.

{-}

It did not physically hurt.

Later she wasn’t even sure if they just used an injection or actually scraped her uterus out.

She bled a little, was given a pad, and sent on her way home with a bunch of brochures, a couple of condoms and a pack of “starter” pills.

She felt emotionally bankrupt.

She searched her heart for the sadness she ought to feel, she poked her conscience for the protest she expected, she turned inward and was only met with a ghastly void.

“You don’t have to cry if you don’t want to” The latest love-of-her-life consoled “My other girl friends didn’t.”

Ouch.

She shrugged. There were no tears forthcoming.

Her soul had taken flight.

{-}