Lightness of Being…

They got back home to another series of festivities to their utter disconcertment. A huge luncheon was thrown by their mothers to welcome them back. Another dinner reception was prepared that night to reintroduce the bride to society followed by an extended family breakfast where everything from smoked fish, breads, and delicacies to an assortment of desserts were served.

Hanan woke up in the morning to wash her hair for show. According to Islamic tradition both men and women were supposed to purify themselves after sex in a ritual “ghusl”. In Mombasa, with extended families living in close quarters the number of times a couple had sex per week was determined by how many times the women came out with wet hair every morning.

With Asma’s eyes poring into her soul, Hanan was forced to wear the mask of a content bride. If Asma had any concerns she kept them to herself. She was attentive to her daughter in law and doted upon her son. She observed how Hanan would offer him tea, sort his clothes for laundry, and tidy the room before she opened the doors. Her gorgeous daughter in law was already being such a good wife; Asma took comfort in that knowledge.

Some malicious rumors had reached her ears when the couple was away on their honeymoon; but as far as she could see those were just empty tongues wagging their jealousy in open spaces. 

{-}

Six months into their marriage and Hanan still could not fit into her new social circle. Although people of all ages intermingled, there was some natural stratification in Mombasa. When a girl got married; she evolved from “girlhood” into a new responsible role morphing her into womanhood. She left her family’s house for her own place; or in most cases to the husband’s family home. More contribution was expected of her in terms of cleaning, cooking and proving her womanly skills. Socially, she was allowed (and expected to) attend weddings and funerals; and in general help out with communal events.

She would hang out with other newly weds or older women listening to their woes about finances, husbands, and anxieties on producing children (or sons in particular). When they were alone, the women around her seemed eager to talk about their husbands. Hanan was taken aback at how raunchy and explicit some women were concerning their most intimate affairs. It was almost expected of her to complain about Fuad, since it seemed everyone else was competing on who had the most wretched marriage.

“At least your husband is at home. Albeit doing nothing and jobless. I barely see mine! And the stories I keep hearing. My God! Women come to me to tell me of all kinds of sordid affairs my husband is involved in. But what should I do? I just raise my hands and thank God, at least he provides for me.”

Another would chime in “All I can say is keep being grateful, if you had a husband who beats you like so and so. She gets beat up so much after he goes off drinking; sometimes we are surprised to see her alive the next day.”

Women would tease Hanan about her married life.

“So tell us, how is he?”

“He is awesome Alhamdullillah” Hanan hugged her secrets close.

“Come on, no man is perfect. We all know!”

“Alhamdullillah.” Hanan would purse her lips and try to change the topic. “Is it getting hotter nowadays, or is it just me?”

Women around her just gave each other a meaningful look and kept the patter of polite conversation until Hanan was out of earshot.

“Oh my God! That poor child; I wonder what he makes her do behind closed doors!”

{-}

How the whole island seems to find out about the most intimate of affairs; no one ever knows. Somehow the rumor about Fuad kept growing stronger after his marriage; to the point Hanan’s mom had to check in with her daughter to ensure she was okay. Hanan reassured her that everything was indeed fine feigning ignorance about the rumors.

By the time they left for university; they were both relieved. Hanan was now safe from the prying eyes of the women; and Fuad who was feeling more suffocated by the minute was ecstatic to be temporarily free.

{-}

Their university years were the best they were to ever enjoy together. Later, Hanan would look back and wish she had adamantly refused to go back to Mombasa; she wished she had pressured him more to stay put in Nairobi where everyone was too busy to mind each other’s business. But regrets are useless when everything had been written so long ago; when the inks have long dried and parchments permanently folded.

They passed through their school years in a daze of classes, exams and papers. They lived like roommates, best friends, buddies, and soul mates. They took impromptu trips for midnight snacks; prayed together; studied together; and hung out between classes. Other students, most of whom were single; envied their closeness and intimacy.

Omar visited them once in a while; but Hanan never warmed up to him. There was something in his gaze that always unsettled her.

In the privacy of their apartment and away from external pressures they experimented in a number of different ways in the bedroom to varying degrees of “success”.

Hanan researched everything she could about homosexuality; they discussed the philosophy behind it; was it a biological phenomenon? Was it merely a preference, instinct, or deviation from the norm? Why would God create such feelings (or allow them to exist) and then turn around and make it sinful to act on them?

Hanan also collected stories of successful gay men who married; had children and were able to stay away from “acting” on their feelings. She presented them to Fuad in an indirect way; “You know so and so? He is old now and everything; but rumor has it he was gay all his life…”

Fuad was merely amused “Don’t worry Hanan, I won’t leave you for my hot professor…it’s tempting though I must admit”

Hanan did secretly worry that he might be tempted to “go that way.” She would have no issues seeing him study with other girls; or interacting with them; but the minute she saw a man talking to her husband, she would make her presence known or just hover around them. She couldn’t help recognize the irony of her situation.

Although their bedroom affairs were still out of sorts, through the sheer time they spent together; and the closeness they cultivated; their bodies would always find each other at night and they would always wake up in an intricate web of arms, legs and hair.

Fuad graduated with a Business Administration degree (to run his father’s sprawling businesses) and Hanan pursued literature. They both talked about moving into their own apartment when they settled back in Mombasa; but for the time being they were forced back into his family home.

{-}

Perhaps if they were allowed the privacy of just being, they could have made it work. Perhaps what they dealt with were normal married people “issues”; and had they not put too much stock in the uniqueness of their situation they could have let a lot of things slide.

 The pressure exerted on them to have babies, which really began right after their honeymoon; took on an intensive form after they graduated. Hiding behind school was no longer an option and since they had graduated for over a year, the whispers were getting bolder and more vindictive by the minute.

The last time Hanan was at a wedding, one woman touched her belly and asked:

“Bado?” (Not yet?)

Before Hanan could respond another woman countered “Is she supposed to be the mother of Prophet Isa (Jesus) (AS)?”

Hanan just made her way forward, away from the snickering circle of women.

 Asma worried that Hanan’s reliance on the birth control pill was messing up her “womb” (for of course it had to be Hanan’s fault). She had always taken pride in her own fleet of kids; and couldn’t understand why anyone would use artificial means. She always made her opinion known “If God wants us to have children who are we to fight it? I think it’s Haram to keep copying the westerners; you know they don’t have Imaan (faith) or Tawakkul (reliance) and that’s the real problem.”

Given that both Hanan and Fuad had taken to acting deaf around her; Asma decided to take matters into her own hands.

“Oh here’s Fuad, come here habiby come meet Fatima” Asma pushed a shy girl forward.

“Oh assalamu Alaykum, I have to run mama, sorry.”

“Fatima is a really sweet girl Mashaallah.”

“ummm okay. Nice meeting you. Bye” Fuad left the house wondering what his mom was up to now. He had an extra sense especially reserved for his mother’s intrigues.

Later, while sipping tea with Hanan, Asma coated her voice with sadness;

“You know Hanan it’s been five years since you got married. I am getting old and I yearn to hear my grandchildren’s laughter…”

“Inshaallah Khala” (when God Wills Aunty) Hanan gave her the standard response.

Later still Asma pulled Fuad to her room and asked him what he thought of Fatima.

“Who?”

“That pretty girl I introduced you to earlier?”

“Why should I think anything of her?”

“Oh Fuad, stop acting so dumb, I am ready to have grandkids. Maybe your rizq (blessing) will expand with another woman”

Fuad just laughed. “Mama, ya mama…It’s not Hanan’s fault we don’t have babies yet…”

“I am not placing blame…” Asma’s eyes moistened “But where are my grandchildren? These walls ache for their laughter”

“Mama you have over twenty of them already!” Fuad couldn’t believe his mom’s audacity and melodrama.

“But you are my special child. Your kids will be the pride of my old age!” She started weeping softly; something within her had begun to see the logic of her neighbor’s rumors. Maybe Fuad was one of them. The very thought of it was enough to break her heart into a million shards.

Fuad kissed her on her forehead and refrained from saying anything incriminating. After a couple of awkward minutes, he excused himself.

{-}

In their room, Hanan was curled up on their king size poster bed, her eyes swollen and red.

“What’s wrong habibty? What’s going on?”

“Nothing”

“No, tell me…” He went up to her and held her.

“It’s just everyone is talking and (hiccup) It’s so hard…I just (hiccup) don’t know what to say or do anymore”

Fuad consoled her with the usual brave mantra of “it’s our life” and “who cares what people say”.

When he finally stepped out of the oppressive climate of his house, he couldn’t help feeling like a caged wild bird.

{-}

He knew what Hanan was going through; men had been thumping his back for the longest time joking about his “seeds”. His own dad, normally very reserved and austere, had dropped a hint or two on settling down and bringing children into the world, reminding him of the Prophet’s (SAW) Hadith on expanding the Ummah.

Fuad bit back the retort “The last thing this unjust and messed up world needs is more children.”

He felt backed up into a corner and aside from coming up with more audacious lies like he was impotent or Hanan was sterile; they would have to come up with something soon to appease his prying society.

Since coming back to Mombasa his relationship with Hanan had been different too. Maybe it’s the pressure getting to them. Hanan was becoming more demanding and easily prone to tears; he distanced himself to give her space but that hardly resolved anything. Their relationship was cracking imperceptibly and Hanan was starting to become to him, like his mother, another burden of guilt to lug around.

With his father’s business booming he had additional work pressure that set his normally genial nature on edge. He hadn’t been able to retreat into silence as much as he used to; and even his workout routine was upset due to external demands.

He felt trapped, frustrated and confused; and while he was used to dealing with those feelings; a novel emotion started simmering within him. Fuad was a stranger to rage and it took a while before he began to understand the searing heat within him.

{-}

“Fuad, don’t shut me out! We need to talk, to try…”

“There’s nothing to talk about…we have talked our hearts out Hanan.” He clenched and unclenched his fists pacing the confines of their room.

“No, maybe we should travel, get away for some time?”

“What will it solve? Hanan, why don’t you go, just leave me. I will take the heat. Go live your life with someone who will make you happy…”

“Stop! NO! I don’t want to! I told you already!”

“What do you want from me then?”

“Can we just go back to how we were? Maybe we should move back to Nairobi, that change of scene did wonders for us”

“Don’t you realize we are living an illusion? I’d rather be alone Hanan. I just can’t deal with it all anymore.”

“But I love you.”

“Love is never enough.”

“It is. It’s all we have and all we need.”

“You need a man.”

“You are one.”

“Shoot, I need a man!”

“NO! Please don’t go there…don’t.”

“Why not? It’s Haram? Explain to me why I was created in this limbo to begin with? Why did God implant in me feelings that then make me sinful in HIS eyes? This is unjust!”

“No. It’s your test. You have been so good so far. You desire that which is forbidden for you; but don’t we all? Don’t we all think the grass is greener where we are not? Don’t we all crave that forbidden apple? It’s resisting that makes us stronger; it’s the strength to say no to our base desires that bring us closer to Him” Hanan repeated her usual mantra; they had beaten that topic to death.

“Why though? Why play this charade? Isn’t lying a grave sin too? I am so sick of it. I am sick of pretending, sick of wanting, sick of yearning. I am just plain SICK of my existence!”

Hanan reached out to touch him, to soften his edge, to caress his anger away; but Fuad presently made for the door.

“Where are you going habiby?” She was weeping and a note of panic was rising in her voice.

“Out” Maybe it was the distance in his voice; or the finality brooked by the thunderous slam of her door; at that moment Hanan just knew she would never see Fuad again.

{-}

My Dearest love,

What is there to say that you don’t know yet? I am writing to bid you farewell; oh light of my eyes; tantalizing flower of my soul. I am sorry I couldn’t have been a better husband to you; sorry that I starved you of physical affection. Sorry.   If it makes you feel any better; had there been one person in this world who could have “turned me straight” it would have been you. I love you with a depth that I never felt possible. Thank you for showing me the capacity of human love; for your generosity; sacrificing spirit and beauty of soul.  I am not half as eloquent as you; but I am really trying to impart to you just how hard it has been for me. This step of actually leaving is so hard for me. I am forced to cut all my ties with a culture that weighs me down; roots that shackle my feet; and guilt that I know I will always somehow carry within me. Don’t look for me. Don’t wait for me. Go my love; go find the one who will lead you into the joy; depth; and exploration of your own womanhood. Let him pluck you ripe and devour you in ways I could only dream of doing.  

I am sorry for letting you down; for not being stronger. Don’t worry about me. I will be fine; by and by. Love and a broken a heart;Fuad.  

{-}

He stared at the ocean waves coming and going, coaxing his thoughts out with the gentle lullaby of a timeless time. He felt at home in this unbroken silence; at peace with the paradox that defined him.

He traded the familiar drapes of tropical heat for the fickle seasons of Atlantic’s shores; the heavy sweetness of sultry Jasmine for the flaming wildness of the cardinal flower; the idyllic languor of his fussy island for the busy mindset of another’s lore.

Thousands of miles and long years separated him from the only woman he ever truly loved. He often wondered about her; wrote many more letters that were still writhing in the corners of his room; he reached out to her but withheld. His love could bear the distance; Hanan deserved much better than he could ever offer her.

He followed the Gay pride movement taking root in the Muslim communities with Al Fatiha and Imaan leading in the west, with much interest. But years later, he was still in the same intractable place, that vague madness torn between desire and duty.

Why couldn’t he just end up in another man’s arms? It wasn’t so clear cut for him. For one, despite arguments being made to the contrary, he still wasn’t rationally convinced that homosexuality could be reconciled with Islam. At some level he felt to be a gay-Muslim was just as incongruous as a gay-married (to a woman) man.

At a deeper level he envied some guys he met who not only shed their cultural identities; but left Islam as well. For they had enough guts to make a clean sweep of the hypocrisies that defined them and embraced themselves wholeheartedly. Leaving his culture, and the two women that mattered the most to him, was a hard enough step for him. He just didn’t have it in him to continue beyond that, at least not yet.

He was still working out his relationship with God, spirituality, Islam, and the Quran. It wasn’t easy to move beyond the “He created me this way” rage; why couldn’t he have been endowed with just a little bit of his cousin’s capacious lust for women? Why does He (Who supposed to be All Merciful and All Compassionate) have to make it so hard to be a sincerely good and righteous Muslim?

It seemed to him that the cultures Islam took root in highly encouraged the hypocritical, narrow minded, wretched (and gleeful of other’s misery) type of personality. If he had stayed married to Hanan and somehow impregnated her; no one would care less about his struggles. He could have easily “saved” his face for society and kept living with the torments of his conscience. Or worse if he had gone searching for other relationships on “the side” everyone would have turned a blind eye and still embraced him.

But what was stopping him now? Perhaps he still hadn’t met the guy of his fantasies; or maybe he was just biding his time. Maybe when the norms of his adopted culture washed over him enough he would be ready to take that plunge he had desired for so long.

As the waves came and left; soothing him with hushed whispers of a distant place; tracing eternal melodies in his heart; another realization slowly glowed within him. Maybe what was holding him back was another thing altogether. He had been cradled and nurtured within the profound silence of aloneness for far too long; breaking that shell to venture into the noisy pandemonium and demands of human intimacy was yet another barrier that he would have to cross.

{-}

The sun had long set, letting the gentle night erase her fiery twilight show. By and by, night sounds and songs began making themselves heard. The chirping of crickets to the beat of rustling leaves; a croaking frog somewhere nearby; the hooting of an owl perched on a distant tree.

A gentle breeze blew gliding waves and sands of time under her shifting body.

On an empty track of beach the solitary figure of a man was silhouetted by obscure shades of loving darkness…

{The end}