third party there in the room with us⦠that third person being God! He approached me, bent over and kissed my lips, âYouâre my very own prophet!â he said and sprang onto the bed. I didnât feel his words or kisses because at that moment my head was filled with the question of prophethood!
Throughout my childhood and adolescence, Nadiaâs silence preoccupied me; I couldnât understand why she wouldnât stand up to Nahil and defend herself. Why does she never say anything but the words necessary to run our household affairs, words to do with food, health and school? I never know if sheâs happy or joyful, sad or in pain. She never once talks about what sheâs feeling. Only about things outside of her body and soul. Things she has no relationship to. To me, Nadiaâs like a visitor to earthâ she doesnât want to change anything, inherit anything or leave anything behind; she doesnât want to take or to give. When I think about her now, the only impression I have is the one she gave us: that she had no power or strength and that we could take advantage of herâin the way that all children my age and my brotherâs age take advantageâ we could do what we wanted and we could tell her anything we wanted. Perhaps my motherâs silence is derived from her belief that perfection is found only in religious books; it has no relationship to real life. In this way, she isnât so different than my grandfather and his opinions of the world we live in. She is different from him, though, because she sees and knows and doesnât do anything. I have never once seen Nadia read the Hikmeh. Iâve seen her read newspapers, novels, magazines and any kind of stories that fall into her hands. Deep inside of herself she believes that religion is love. Thatâs what she gives us, unconditional love, nothing else.
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I return to Mombasa from South Africa. My Austrian neighbor Eva accompanies me with new environmental books about droughts and deforestation that sheâs collected from the tables of the conference she attended. She also bears gifts for her husband. Sheâs returning with her two children, who joined her in her free time in the hotel room, the pool and in a rental car on excursions to waterfalls and shopping. I return with a small half-empty suitcase and a puppy that was a gift from Joe. When Iâm with Eva, I long for the feeling of being a mother. I long to feel as I would have if Iâd kept my baby and not had an abortion, out of fear of people in Beirut and the scandal. Ever since then Iâve wanted to recover and I havenât been able to.
The migraine follows me like itâs my shadow. I hurry to my bed, which Iâve truly missed. Chris comes over to me, trying to flirt with me. He wraps his arms around me and draws me to him while trying to pull off my nightgown. My body resists, it wraps around itself like someone closing a window theyâd left unlocked. I cover my body completely and tell him that my migraine hasnât relented for even one minute. I tell him this because I know itâs the only way to keep him off of me. I have avoided him since I learned from my doctor that I canât conceive. He asks me, flirtatiously, if I met anyone I was attracted to there; in the voice of someone whoâs given up, he adds that he wouldnât have a problem with it. I donât answer but when hovering between sleep and waking I think that my loneliness when Iâm with him has begun to tire himâmy loneliness that he prefers to call fidelity, refusing to pursue short-lived affairs when Iâm away. The heaviness of our mute relationship exhausts him, since, in his heart of hearts, he believes that life should not be so serious. But he prefers to play his roleâ the role of husband. In that moment, I think that Iâm there beside him by accident, hanging on only because of an arbitrary equation: I
Throughout my childhood and adolescence, Nadiaâs silence preoccupied me; I couldnât understand why she wouldnât stand up to Nahil and defend herself. Why does she never say anything but the words necessary to run our household affairs, words to do with food, health and school? I never know if sheâs happy or joyful, sad or in pain. She never once talks about what sheâs feeling. Only about things outside of her body and soul. Things she has no relationship to. To me, Nadiaâs like a visitor to earthâ she doesnât want to change anything, inherit anything or leave anything behind; she doesnât want to take or to give. When I think about her now, the only impression I have is the one she gave us: that she had no power or strength and that we could take advantage of herâin the way that all children my age and my brotherâs age take advantageâ we could do what we wanted and we could tell her anything we wanted. Perhaps my motherâs silence is derived from her belief that perfection is found only in religious books; it has no relationship to real life. In this way, she isnât so different than my grandfather and his opinions of the world we live in. She is different from him, though, because she sees and knows and doesnât do anything. I have never once seen Nadia read the Hikmeh. Iâve seen her read newspapers, novels, magazines and any kind of stories that fall into her hands. Deep inside of herself she believes that religion is love. Thatâs what she gives us, unconditional love, nothing else.
Â
I return to Mombasa from South Africa. My Austrian neighbor Eva accompanies me with new environmental books about droughts and deforestation that sheâs collected from the tables of the conference she attended. She also bears gifts for her husband. Sheâs returning with her two children, who joined her in her free time in the hotel room, the pool and in a rental car on excursions to waterfalls and shopping. I return with a small half-empty suitcase and a puppy that was a gift from Joe. When Iâm with Eva, I long for the feeling of being a mother. I long to feel as I would have if Iâd kept my baby and not had an abortion, out of fear of people in Beirut and the scandal. Ever since then Iâve wanted to recover and I havenât been able to.
The migraine follows me like itâs my shadow. I hurry to my bed, which Iâve truly missed. Chris comes over to me, trying to flirt with me. He wraps his arms around me and draws me to him while trying to pull off my nightgown. My body resists, it wraps around itself like someone closing a window theyâd left unlocked. I cover my body completely and tell him that my migraine hasnât relented for even one minute. I tell him this because I know itâs the only way to keep him off of me. I have avoided him since I learned from my doctor that I canât conceive. He asks me, flirtatiously, if I met anyone I was attracted to there; in the voice of someone whoâs given up, he adds that he wouldnât have a problem with it. I donât answer but when hovering between sleep and waking I think that my loneliness when Iâm with him has begun to tire himâmy loneliness that he prefers to call fidelity, refusing to pursue short-lived affairs when Iâm away. The heaviness of our mute relationship exhausts him, since, in his heart of hearts, he believes that life should not be so serious. But he prefers to play his roleâ the role of husband. In that moment, I think that Iâm there beside him by accident, hanging on only because of an arbitrary equation: I
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