|
Fahd bin Abdul Aziz
Sultan Bin Abdul Aziz
Naef Bin Abdul Aziz
Salman Bin Abdul Aziz
Ahmad Bin Abdul Aziz
| |
The Woman's Room
Nura's hand was shaking as she retrieved the Koran, our Holy Book. She
pointed out a section to me. With increasing emotion, I read aloud the
passage:
" 'If any of your women are guilty of lewdness Take the evidence from
four witnesses amongst you Against them; and if they testify, confine them
[the guilty women] to houses until Death do claim them.' "
I looked at Nura and then, one by one, at my other sis-ters. My gaze
rested on Tahani's stricken face. All hope was lost for her friend Sameera.
Sara, usually quiet and restrained, now spoke. "No one can help her.
The Prophet himself ordered this method of punishment."
Anger flamed out of my body as I retorted, "Sameera was not guilty of
lewdness-there are not four witnesses to any crime of Hudud [crimes
against God]! She mere-ly fell in love with a Westerner! These men of ours
have determined it is permissible for them to mate with a for-eign woman,
a woman of another religion, but no, we women are forbidden! It is insane!
This law-and its interpretation-is made by men, for men!" Nura tried
to calm me, but I was prepared to fight to the last desperate inch this
unnatural tyranny now focused on one whom we all loved, Sameera.
The day before, Sameera had been sentenced by the men of her family and of
her religion to be confined to a room of darkness until she was claimed by
death. Sameera was twenty-two. Death would come slowly to one so young and
strong of limb.
Her crime? While in school in London, she had met and fallen in love with
one not of our faith. From our first age of understanding, we Saudi women
are taught that it is a sin for any Muslim woman to bind herself to a
non-Muslim: The religion of her children cannot be guaranteed if her
husband is Christian or Jewish. Since the last word in the Middle Eastern
family rests with the husband, the children might well be brought up as
Christian or Jewish; the wife and mother would have no say.
Every Muslim is taught that Islam is the final mes-sage from Allah to
mankind, and, therefore, it is the faith superior to all others. Muslims
are not allowed to bring themselves knowingly under the patronage of
non-Muslims, nor should they ever allow such a relation-ship to develop.
Yet many Saudi men do marry women of other faiths without repercussions.
Only Saudi wom-en pay the supreme price for their association with a
non-believer. Our religious scholars say the union of Muslim men with
women of other faiths is permissible, for the children are raised in the
superior Muslim faith of their father.
Just thinking about the unfairness of it all made me scream out in rage.
My sisters and I understood that from this moment, the stepping-stones of
Sameera's life, one by one, would lead to a great tragedy. And we, her
friends from childhood, were helpless in our desires to rescue her.
Sameera had been Tahan's dearest friend since the age of eight. She was an
only child; her mother had fallen ill with ovarian cancer and, although
cured, she was told there would be no other children. Surprisingly,
Sameera's father had not divorced his now barren wife, which would have
been customary for the majority of Saudi men.
My sisters and I had all known women stricken with serious illnesses, only
to be thrust aside by their hus-bands. The social stigma of divorce is
severe, and the financial and emotional trauma overwhelming for wom-en. If
the children of a divorced woman are not suckling, they too can be taken
from her. If divorced women are fortunate, they will have loving parents
to welcome them home, or an elder son who will give them shelter. Without
a supportive family, they are doomed, for no single or divorced woman can
live alone in my land. There are government-sponsored homes built
specifi-cally to accommodate such women, but life is bleak and each moment
is cruel. Those few divorced women who have an opportunity to remarry are
lucky enough either to be a great beauty or to have a great fortune. As
with everything else in Saudi society, the failure of the marriage and the
blame for divorce rests with the woman.
Sameera's mother had been one of the fortunate. Her husband loved her
truly and did not think of casting her aside at her time of greatest need.
He did not even take a second wife to provide him with sons. Sameera's
father is a man considered strange in our society.
Sameera and Tahani were the best of friends. And, since Sara and I were
closest to Tahani in age, we were playmates of Sameera too. All three of
us were envious of Sameera in many ways, for her father bestowed great
passion on his only child. He, unlike most Saudi men of his generation,
was of a modern mind and promised his daughter that she would be free of
the antiquated cus-toms forced upon the females of our land.
Sameera had felt our pain at the obvious failings in our father. In every
crisis she had stood firm with the passion of our cause. My eyes stung as
I recalled Sameera's tears at Sara's wedding. She had clung to my neck,
moaning that Sara would die in the harness of servitude! And now she,
Sameera, was locked in the darkest of prisons where even servants were
forbidden to speak as they pushed her meals through a special slot at the
base of the only door. She was never to hear another human voice. Her
total world would be only the sound of her own breathing.
The thought was unbearable. I turned to Sara and suggested that Kareem and
Asad might lend some assis-tance. Tahani looked up in expectation. Sara
shook her head slowly, no. Asad had already made inquiries; nei-ther the
uncle nor Sameera's former husband would lift the harsh sentence of
darkness with silence until death. This was a matter between the family
and their God.
The year of my wedding, Sameera had already charted her future with great
care. Since an early age, she had had the odd idea to become an engineer.
No woman in Saudi Arabia had such a degree, for we are directed to careers
considered appropriate for females: pediatricians, teachers, or social
workers for women and children. In addition, Saudi female students are
forbidden con-tact with male teachers, so Sameera's father had hired his
daughter a tutor from London. After years of con-centration and effort
studying at home, Sameera had been accepted to a technical school in
London. Her father, in great pride of his beautiful and clever child,
accompanied his wife and daughter to London.
Sameera's father and mother settled Sameera in a private dwelling. Two
Indian female servants and an Egyptian secretary were employed to live
with their daughter. They bade their child farewell and returned to
Riyadh. Of course, no one had a thought that they would never see each
other again. The months passed, and as we expected, Sameera excelled in
school.
During her fourth month in London, Sameera met Larry, an exchange student
from California. Opposites attract, as they say, for Larry was tall,
muscular and blond, a California free spirit, while Sameera was exotic,
slim, and mired in the confusions created by our oppres-sive men.
She wrote Tahani that love had made her heart heavy, for she knew she was
forbidden to marry a Christian. Larry was a Catholic who would never agree
to convert to the Muslim faith, a procedure that would help their
situation.
Within the month, Tahani received a second, more desperate letter, Sameera
and Larry could not survive apart. She was going to live with him while in
London, and later, she would escape to the States where they would marry.
Then, Sameera said, her parents could purchase a home near their daughter
in the States. She was certain that their close family relationship would
not suffer. But she would be forced to forfeit her Saudi nationality. We
would never see her again in our coun-try, for she understood that she
could not return to our land after such a scandalous event as marriage to
a non-believer.
Tragically, Sameera's parents never learned of their daughter's dilemma,
for both of them and their driver were killed instantly when a water
tanker crashed into the side of their car as it crossed a busy street in
Riyadh.
In the Arab world, when the head of the family (always a male) dies, the
eldest brother takes control of the affairs of the surviving family
members. Upon Sameera's father's death, his eldest brother was now her
guardian. Never have two men of the same family borne so lit-tle
resemblance to each other. Where Sameera's father was permissive and
loving, his brother was stern and unbending. A man of the deepest faith,
he had often expressed his profound displeasure at the independence of his
brother's daughter. Scandalized, he had not spo-ken to Sameera's father
since the day Sameera enrolled in the school in London.
Scornful of the education of girls, he thought it best that females be
married at a tender age to a man of years and wisdom. He had recently wed
a thirteen-year-old child. She had begun her menses a few months back and
was the daughter of a man such as himself.
Sameera's uncle was the father of four daughters and three sons; his
daughters had been safely wed at the first sign of puberty. They received
little schooling oth-er than the female arts of cooking and sewing,
although they had ample instruction in reading skills so that they could
recite the Koran.
The day following her parents' deaths, Sameera received a second shock. A
communication of command arrived from her uncle, who was now the head of
her family: "Return to Riyadh on the earliest flight. Bring all that
belongs to you."
Her fear of the brutal realism of life under the care of her uncle caused
Sameera to gather her courage and plunge irrationally into a headlong
course of unknowns. In what proved to be a fatal mistake for her, Sameera
and Larry fled together to California.
The blatant disobedience of this female child burned into the heart of
Sameera's new guardian. At that time, he had no knowledge of Sameera's
foreign lover. He had no understanding of the wayward girl, for he had no
experience with unyielding females.
By the end of the month, with no information of Sameera's whereabouts, the
uncle imagined his niece dead, her body decaying in a heathen land. His
hunt for her intensified without results, until finally, at the insistence
of his eldest son, he relented and employed the services of a private
agency to trace the path of his brother's only child.
Early one morning, Sameera's tyrannical uncle, roar-ing with rage, arrived
at Tahani's villa, clutching the agency's report. He demanded that my
sister, Sameera's confidante, reveal the location of his "ungodly
niece and her infidel lover!"
Eyes wide as she described the scene, Tahani mar-veled at his anger. He
banged his head against the walls of her home; he cried to Allah for
assistance in slay-ing his niece; with fierce denunciations, he promised
revenge upon the heathen lover. He cursed the day his brother's child was
born. He prayed aloud for God to heap calamities upon his faithless niece.
He declared that she had ruined the honor of the family for generations to
come.
Tahani, overwhelmed by his shouting and violence, fled from her home to
the offices of her husband, Habbib. When they returned to their palace,
Sameera's uncle had since departed, but not without a dire warning to the
ser-vants that the one who sheltered his niece would feel his wrath. To
soothe Tahani's fears, Habbib sought out the uncle and calmed his angry
malice. He assured him that his niece was not in contact with our family.
Isolated as she was in another country, Sameera was unaware that her
uncle, in a ceaseless effort to locate his niece, now confiscated all
family members' mail. By promise of great punishment should any contact
with his niece escape his attention, he intimidated the family. The girl
would eventually long for contact with those of her blood; when the
"one of great sin," as he deemed Sameera, weakened, she would
not slip past his vigilant eye. He needed only to wait.
Meanwhile, in California, Larry grew uncertain of his love, and Sarneera
thrashed about as one lost. Her lov-er's new indifference bit deeply into
her heart; she called Tahani in great fear and uncertainty as to her
future course. What should she do? She had few funds and few-er friends in
her new land. Without marriage to Larry, she would not be allowed to
remain in America. Habbib, while allowing Tahani the freedom of her
friendship with Sameera, refused his wife's request to wire money. With
only a few thousand dollars left in her bank account, Sameera, in an act
of desperation, called her dearest auntie, the youngest sister of her
father. The auntie, in dread of her brother's power, dutifully reported
the call of her niece. Notified of his niece's difficulties, the uncle
carefully planned for her capture and return to his influence.
Sameera was lured to Cairo with the promise of peace-ful reentry into the
family she had fled. Money was wired for her return trip. Sarneera
telephoned Tahani and tearfully confided that she had little choice.
Larry's love had dissolved, and he had no inclination to assist her
financially. She had not yet earned her degree and could not earn a
salary. She had no money. She had placed tele-phone calls to the Saudi
embassies in Washington and London. The embassy staffs were unsympathetic.
After she had explained her situation, she was curtly told she would have
to return to her family. Escape from reality was impossible; she must
return to Saudi Arabia.
Sameera told Tahani she was fearfully hopeful that her aunties were
speaking the truth, for they had given their oath that their brother had
softened and had agreed for her to continue her educational courses in
London. Per-haps, after all, her uncle would treat the only child of his
brother with kindness. Tahani, certain that the wrath of the uncle had not
diminished, was unable to voice her caution, for she saw clearly the
futility of Sameera's position. Sameera was met at the Cairo airport by
two aunties and two male cousins. They quieted her apprehensions with talk
of her return to London, once she had repaired her isolation from her
family. Happily, Sameera con-cluded that all would be well. Sameera
returned to Riyadh.
When Sameera's expected telephone call did not come, Tahani fell into the
deepest depression. She finally called Sameera's relatives, only to be
informed that the child had a small fever and did not feel well enough to
speak to her friends. Tahani was assured that Sameera would contact her
the moment her health improved.
The second week of her return, one of Sameera's aunties answered Tahani's
plea with the news that a marriage had been arranged, and that Sameera
wished for Tahani to cease her contacts, for her future hus-band did not
look favorably upon his wife's girlhood friends.
Sameera finally managed to contact Tahani. Her hopes had been dashed from
the moment she saw her uncle, she said. He had been waiting for their
meeting, his fury building, until it had peaked at the sight of his
"Godless" niece.
Since the night of her return, Sarneera had been con-fined to her room,
awaiting the verdict of her uncle. No member of her family dared raise a
voice of protest at her mistreatment. She whispered to Tahani that she had
been informed that a suitable marriage had been arranged; she would be wed
within the month. Sameera was terrorized at the thought, for her
relationship with Larry had been one of deep love; she was no longer a
virgin.
We were able to discover few details of the wedding, for no one outside
Sameera's family was invited. We knew for certain that it was not a union
of joy. We learned that the groom was in his mid-fifties and that Sameera
was the third wife.
Much later, Habbib was enlightened of the family gos-sip by one of
Sameera's male cousins. He said that on her wedding night Sameera had
fought the husband with such strength and determination, he had barely
survived the taking of what was his. The husband, we were told, was short
and fat and not overly muscular. Evidently, blood had been lost, but it
was that of the husband; in the fierce battle, he had had little time to
verify his wife's virginity.
When Tahani questioned Sameera's auntie, who now regretted her role in
entrapping her niece, she was told that in the beginning, the husband had
been fond of the tigress he had wed. Her insults and brave defense had
done little to deter his resolve to conquer her with force. But, as time
passed, he wearied of Sameera's violent ges-tures of disdain and grew to
regret the one he had taken under his roof.
Sameera had bragged to her auntie that, in her dis-tress, she had grown
bold and shouted into her husband's round face that she could not love one
such as he. She, Sameera, had known the caresses of a real man, a man of
strength. She scorned her husband's expertise as a lover and compared him
cruelly to her tall, handsome American.
Without ceremony, the husband divorced Sameera and deposited her at her
uncle's door. He angrily told the uncle that the family had no honor and
had knowing-ly wed him to one who was no longer pure. In great detail, he
spoke of Sameera's "shame" at coming to the marriage bed with
memories of another in her mind.
In a bottomless black rage, the uncle sought guidance through the pages of
the Koran; he soon found verses that cemented his decision to shut away
the one who had shamed his family name. The former husband, still smarting
from the insults on his manhood, furthered the decision by vowing to
announce to all who would listen the lack of honor in the home of
Sameera's uncle, unless serious punishment were meted out to the girl.
Habbib delivered the sad news to Tahani that Sameera had been sentenced to
"the woman's room," a particularly cruel punishment. A special
room on the top floor of her uncle's villa had been prepared for her. A
windowless padded cell had been completed for the purpose of imprisoning
Sameera. The windows were obstructed with cement blocks. Insulation had
been installed so that the cries of the one imprisoned could not be heard.
A special door had been hung, with a bottom panel adjusted to serve as
entry for food. A hole in the floor had been built for the disposal of
body wastes.
Curious foreign workmen were informed that a mem-ber of the family had
suffered brain injuries from an accident; it was feared that this person
might harm her-self or perhaps others of the family.
My sisters and I had gathered to console Tahani, who was suffering
tremendous grief at the incarceration of one close to her heart. Each of
us was in pain, for Sameera was one of us, a Saudi woman with no recourse
against injustice.
While I plotted endless schemes of rescue, my older sisters saw the
situation more clearly. They had heard stories about other such women, and
knew that there was no hope of extricating Sameera from the isolation of
her fading life.
For many nights sleep deserted me; I was consumed by emotions of despair
and helplessness. I too had hear rumors of other condemned women in my
country receiv-ing the punishment of the woman's room, but I had never had
a picture in my mind of the reality of the drawn and anguished howl of
someone I had known, a woman who had embodied the life and hope of our
land, a woman now living in utter blackness, without sight or sound to
sustain her life.
I awoke one night thinking that I had suffered a bad dream. I was grasping
for easement when I realized that the nightmare was real; there would be
no relief to those who knew Sameera and the fact that she now suffered
helplessly in total captivity and isolation. The never--ending question
ran through my mind: What power on earth could release her? As I stared up
at the desert night sky sparkling with stars, I had to conclude there was
none. |
Second Wife
Thursday, August 28, 1980, is a day i will never forget; Kareem and I had
just returned to Riyadh from Taif, a cool mountain resort. I was lounging
on the sofa while one of the Filipino servants rubbed my aching feet. Our
three children were at a camp in Dubai, in the Emir-ates, and I was bored
without them.
As I looked through the stack of newspapers that had accumulated during
our two months' absence, an item of interest leaped from the page of the
latest newspaper. One of my relatives, the governor of Asir, Prince Khaled
Al Faisal, had recently taken steps to curb the spiraling cost of marriage
in his province by limiting the dowry costs that a groom had to pay to
acquire a bride in his area.
The prince had placed a limit of SR 25,000 ($7,000) as the maximum the
bride's parents would be allowed to request for their daughter. The
article pointed out that the directive was well received by eligible
bachelors, since SR 100,000 ($27,000) was the average price of brides in
the year 1980. As a result, many young men of Saudi Arabia could not
afford to purchase a wife.
I read the item to the Filipino servant, but she took little note, for she
had few concerns of the plight of Saudi women who were bought and sold.
Mere survival was a heavy burden for most Filipinos. They thought we Saudi
women were quite fortunate to have endless time on our hands and vast sums
of money to spend on whatever we might fancy.
As the mother of two daughters, I did not care about the actual price of a
bride, for when the occasion came for our children to wed, the bridal
price would be of little concern. E(areem and I were exceedingly wealthy;
mon-ey failed to play a role in my daily frustrations. But I saw a trend
of backward moves by the men of our family. In the confines of our homes,
they spoke eloquently of freedom for women, while in legal directives they
them-selves wrote, they kept the pressure high for the status quo and
steadily pushed us back to the primitive age.
Only the total elimination of dowries would have satisfied my longing. How
many years would it take before we women were no longer bought and sold as
property?
I was restless and began to feel edgy, for all of my sis-ters, other than
Sara, were still abroad. My dearest sister was in the last few weeks of
her fourth pregnancy and now slept most of the daylight hours. My life, so
well planned in my youth, had not turned out the accomplishments I had
envisioned. Instead, I had settled into much the sarne routine as my
sisters and the other royal princesses I befriended.
Since the servants fed the children their morning meal and organized their
days, I generally slept until noon. After a snack of fresh fruits, I would
soak in the tub in a leisurely manner. After dressing, I would join Kareem
or, if he was occupied, my sisters for a late lunch. We would lounge and
read after our meal, and then Kareem and I would take a short nap.
Afterward, he would return to the office or visit with his royal cousins
while I spent a few hours with the children.
I attended women's parties in the late afternoon and returned to our
palace no later than eight or nine o'clock in the evening. Kareem and I
made a point of eating our evening meal with the children to learn about
their activities that day. We almost always attended a dinner party in the
evenings, for we were of a most select group that entertained mixed
couples. Generally, our associates were of the Royal Family only, but on
occasion high-ranking foreigners, foreign ministers, and wealthy Saudi
business families would be included in our inner circle. Since our social
freedoms had not come, we of the younger generation had decided to take
them by force. We knew that the religious groups seethed with anger at our
mixed gatherings, yet they made no move to pressure Khalid, our revered
and pious king.
For such social gatherings the women dressed with flamboyance, for we had
few occasions to show off our jewels and dresses. Kareem and I were often
out until two or three in the morning. Our routine rarely wavered unless
we were out of the country. An eternal question haunted me: Was this all
there was? I could deny the facts no longer. I, the fiery Sultana, had
become an ordinary, dull, and listless Saudi wom-an, with little of real
importance to occupy my days. I hated my lazy and luxurious life, but was
unsure as to the steps I could take to change my rut of bore-dom. After
the relaxing foot massage, I had an urge to walk through the gardens. In
planning our own gardens, I had used Nura's lovely grounds as a reference.
Nothing gave me as much peace as a stroll in the cool shade of the small
forest so vigorously watered and tended by a crew of twelve men from Sri
Lanka. We lived in the middle of one the world's harshest deserts, yet our
homes were surrounded by lush, green gardens. Because of endless sums of
money paid for plentiful water trucked in from the seaports for the four
waterings each day, we wealthy Saudis could escape the stark red sands
that were wait-ing for the slightest chance to encroach upon our cities
and erase our memory from the earth. In time, the desert would win, but
for now, we were the masters of our land.
I stopped to rest in the gazebo specially built for Maha, our eldest
daughter, who would soon celebrate her fifth birthday. She was a dreamer
and spent hours upon hours hidden in the midst of the vine-covered
contraption, playing complicated games with imaginary friends. She
reminded me so of myself at a young age. Fortunately, she did not share
the heavy revolutionary personality of her mother, for Maha enjoyed her
father's love and felt no need to rebel.
I picked at the flowers overhanging Maha's favorite spot. She had left an
assortment of toys in an unruly pile. I smiled and wondered how she could
be so completely removed from her younger sister's character traits, for
Amani, who was now three, was a child of perfection, much in the same
manner as her Aunt Sara.
As I thought of my children, my depression came to me, fierce and strong.
I remembered to thank God for my healthy son and two daughters, but tears
welled in my eyes when I thought again about the fact that I would have no
more children.
The year before, during a routine examination at the King Faisal
Specialist Hospital and Research Center here in our city, I had been
diagnosed with breast cancer. Kareem and I were shocked, for we thought of
illness as belonging only to the aged. I had remained disease -free all of
my life and had borne my last two children with ease. The doctors were
certain I was now clean of the killer cells, but I had lost one breast.
Further, I was also warned not to become pregnant.
As a precaution against desire for more little ones that would overrule
common sense, Kareem and I made a decision for me to undergo
sterilization. My fears had been so great that I might not live to see my
three chil-dren grow that my mind was little troubled at the time by the
thought of having such a small family. In Saudi Arabia, rarely does a
woman stop producing children; age removes the pangs of giving birth,
nothing else.
The sound of Kareem's voice interrupted my deep and troubled thoughts. I
watched him as he walked briskly across the thick grass. We had suffered
many arguments over the past year, for our lives were stressed by my
illness. I made a sudden resolve to become the old Sul-tana, the girl who
used to make her husband laugh with great joy and abandon. I smiled at his
long, athletic legs bound by the tightness of his thobe. The sight of him
still gladdened my heart. When he came closer I recognized that trouble
was on his mind. I tossed around the possibilities, for I knew my
husband's moods; it would take many moments for him to reveal his burden.
I gestured with my hand for him to sit beside me. I wanted to sit as
closely as our rigid customs allow, which meant our limbs could touch
through our clothing so long as no one could see. Kareem disappointed me
when he settled at the far-thest corner of the gazebo. He did not return
my smile of welcome. Some harm had come to the children! I jumped to my
feet and asked him what bad news he brought. He seemed surprised that I
anticipated unpleasant tidings. Then Kareem uttered words that I never in
my wildest expectations thought I would hear from my husband.
"Sultana, I have made a decision, a very difficult deci-sion, some
months ago. I have not discussed this matter with you due to your
illness."
I nodded, unclear to what was awaiting me, though I was terrified to hear
his words. "Sultana, you are, and will always be, the most impor-tant
woman-wife-in my heart."
I still had no notion of what message my husband wanted me to hear, but
without doubt, his words were meant to prepare me for news I would not
embrace. I felt numbness creep into my face; I knew with certainty that I
did not want him to reveal what change I would soon know as actuality.
"Sultana, I am a man that can afford many children. I desire ten,
twenty, as many as God sees fit to give me."
He paused for what seemed a lifetime. I held my breath in fear.
"Sultana, I am going to wed another. As the sec-ond wife, she will be
there to provide me children. I need nothing further from her, only
children. My love is always with you."
No sound could be heard because of the pounding in my head. I was trapped
in a dark reality that I did not believe. Never, never, never, had such a
consideration entered the realm of possibility.
Kareem waited for my reaction. At first, I could not move. My breath
finally came back to me in deep, ragged gasps. The truth of his
announcement slowly sank into my mind and came to life; when my strength
returned, I could answer him only with a fit of passion that brought us
both to the floor.
The depth of my pain could not be expressed in words. I needed to hear
Kareem beg for my mercy as I clawed his face and kiclced his groin and
tried desperately to kill the man who was my husband.
Kareem struggled to get to his feet, but because of the sudden madness
that had consumed me with violence, I was possessed with great physical
strength. To restrain me, Kareem had to pin me to the ground and sit
astride my body.
My screams pierced the air. The names I called my husband caused the
gathering servants to freeze. Like a wild creature, I spit into Kareem's
face and watched his astonishment grow as he witnessed the fury he had
trig-gered. Finally, the servants, in fear of what they were witnessing,
rushed to various areas and hid themselves in buildings and behind bushes.
At last, my rage was spent. A deadly calm fell over me. My mind was made
up. I told Kareem that I wanted a divorce; I would never submit to the
humiliation of his taking another wife. Kareem replied that divorce would
be out of the question unless I chose to give up my chil-dren for his
second wife to raise. He would never allow them to leave his home.
In a flash, I saw my life before me. Kareem, far removed from the dignity
and decency of a civilized man, assuming one wife after another. Most men
and women sense the limits they can bear; philosophically, I did not have
the disposition to abide such debauch-ery. Kareem could mouth any
deception he chose, but I understood the implications of his taking a
second wife. The desire for children was not his basis. The issue was
primitive. We had been wed for eight years; sex-ual license was his airn.
Obviously, my husband was weary of eating the same dish and sought a new,
exotic fare for his palate.
To think that Kareem thought me mindless enough to accept his
well-thought-out explanation further enraged me. Yes, I would accept what
God placed before me, but this dispensation did not extend to my earthly
husband.
I told Kareem to remove himself from my presence; I would, on this day,
restrain from murder.
For the first time, I felt keenly the first emotions of dislike toward my
husband. His fa,cade was wisdom and kindness; his very bowels were cunning
and selfish. I had lain beside him eight years; yet, he suddenly seemed
like a stranger I did not know at all. I asked him to leave my sight. I
was disgusted to discover that he was merely a shell of a man with little
to commend him, after all.
I watched him as he walked away, head low, shoul-ders slumped. How was it
possible to love him less than an hour before? Yet, the flow of my love
had slowed. I had held the character of Kareem high, regarding him in
great favor over other men of our society. Yet, sadly, at the core of his
being, he was as all the rest. Yes, we had lived through a year of
difficulties. Yes, marriage proves restrictive and irritating. We had
enjoyed seven years of immense pleasures and suffered through only one
year of trouble and evolution. For that, thoughts of fresh joys, a new
uncomplicated woman perhaps, crept into my partner's dreams. Worst of all,
he was a man who could blackmail the one with whom he had borne children.
Without shame, he had dangled the sinister possibility of his second wife
determining the happiness of my precious chil-dren. That should connect me
with the reality of my male-dominated world.
As a plan began to grow in my mind, I thought of my husband with pity. His
memory had dimmed of the fiery one he had wed. Kareem would find it
difficult to outwit me in the possession of my children. |
|
