Hurma

Side A of the Om Kalthoum tapeAsk my heart when it repents Perhaps it will hold beauty to blame. He gave me the cassette six years ago, but it’s only now that I’m listening to it for the first time, having retrieved it from its hiding place in my old school bag. Back then the cover photo of the Egyptian singer, Om Kalthoum, and the title ‘Ask My Heart,’ were enough to stop me from even thinking of playing the cassette. ‘I don’t listen to songs,’ I’d said to Suhail’s sister that day, when she handed me the cassette, ‘They’re haram – they’ll make God angry!’ But she insisted I keep it, afraid her brother would be upset if he knew I’d turned down his gift. Ask my heart when it repentsWhy did he give me this song? ‘Repent’ for what? Had Suhail repented? Is that why he rejected Laylat al-Qadr? It never once crossed my mind that anyone would refuse Laylat al-Qadr, ‘the Night of Destiny.’ But then it happened to me. ‘You’ll regret it,’ I told him, but he ignored me. Ask a sensible man for sensible answers But who could keep his wits in the face of such beauty? It’s obvious now that giving me the Om Kalthoum song – a song by ‘the Diva’ as my sister called her – was his way of flirting. But at the time I had no idea, because I didn’t listen to it. I don’t remember the last time I saw my body and my face in the mirror together. I look alluring, seductive. I’ve got a great waist, and what luscious lips! I don’t know anyone else with such full breasts, and a bum as plump and peachy – how can any man resist? My body is still youthful. In my sheer nightie my reflection in the mirror is like a warm ocean, promising pleasure for any man who plunges into its waters. But . . . there’s only me in the mirror. The nearest man is Suhail, the next-door neighbour. Except for on Laylat al-Qadr, I don’t think he’d ever seen me. Perhaps he’d caught the odd glimpse of me from afar, dressed in my long black coat or my loose cloak, my face hidden beneath my veil and headscarf. So the lyrics couldn’t have been meant for me – unless perhaps he saw me in a dream? Don’t some dreams come true, while most truths remain only dreams? Yes, that’s it. He saw me in a dream, and became convinced that it was his Laylat al-Qadr. If I were to ask my heart Tears would answer in its place. I was nineteen years old when he gave me the cassette. Apart from my father and brother, no male – boy or man – had seen me since I turned eight. Father had bought me a long black coat, a baltu, that covered my body from neck to foot, and a headscarf and veil with two small slits for the eyes. I was thrilled when I saw myself in the mirror: I had become a woman, like Mother. By the time I was twelve years old, however, I wanted my father to stop buying me baltus and let me wear the black cloak-like abaya instead, like the one I’d seen at my niece’s wedding. The girl I heard them call Adaniya wore an abaya wrapped round her shoulders and open at the front. It revealed her body so clearly it was almost as though she were naked. In fact, she would have been less alluring without the abaya on at all. For months I dreamt of wearing an abaya, but eventually I became convinced I’d never own one. I was happy with the baltu and the veil when I was eight, but by the age of twelve all I wanted was an abaya. When finally Father announced he was going to buy me one, I thought it would be like Adaniya’s. I had no idea it would be so different until he brought it home, complete with headscarf and veil. Mother explained to me that what we were used to calling the baltu – my mother, sister and I all wore one – was also known as the abaya, and that the style of abaya worn by Adaniya was called something different altogether. That day, I felt weighed down for the first time. I no longer walked but rolled along, a black blob. Standing in front of the mirror, I asked myself: What’s the point of this body of mine? I hadn’t yet realised that others didn’t see me as bearing a burden; for them I was the burden myself, a burden whose presence continually bothered them. In my chest there is only flesh and blood Feeble now that youth has gone. I don’t know: have I lived my youth as I should have done? Have I even lived at all? Honestly, I don’t even know what youth means – is it the years that pass us by during a certain period of our lives or is it how we live during those years? I don’t have the answer. For years I couldn’t even ask a question. If I thought there was a question in a sentence, I was unable to indicate it with a question mark. Why did my teacher beat me for drawing a heart? That was the first question I asked. And why did Father beat me so hard? When he heard me asking Mother that in the living room, he stormed out of the bathroom and gave me another beating. He slapped me on the cheeks, and all over my head, yelling, ‘After everything you’ve learned you still ask why!’ Even if hearts were made of iron Still none could bear what mine has suffered. I was in my fourth year of primary school when it happened. Before the Islamic education teacher arrived for class, my friend pulled a piece of paper from her bag. It was decorated with roses, and in the middle was what she described as a heart pierced by an arrow. Her big sister had drawn it to give to the boy next door – she’d written her name on the heart, and his on the arrow. My friend whispered to me that her sister didn’t know she’d taken it. She let out a loud peal of laughter, obviously intended to arouse the curiosity of our classmates. Everyone looked at us, including the teacher who’d just entered the classroom. ‘What’s going on?’ she bellowed as my friend stuffed the piece of paper back into her bag. ‘Nothing Miss, nothing,’ we both said at the same time. Even if hearts were made of ironYes, Miss Om Kalthoum, even if. I, however, made a heart from paper and ink. I was baffled by my classmate’s fascination with her sister’s drawing. I didn’t understand her embarrassment or why she hid it away so quickly. Her whispering and giggling had stirred something inside me, making it impossible to concentrate on the lesson. I’m not sure why I tore a page from my exercise book and tried to draw the heart and arrow from memory. I don’t know what happened, but when I came around I found myself in the headmistress’s office, my head, chest and back sopping wet. The headmistress was standing beside the Islamic Education teacher, telling her: ‘Not like that, Miss. I’ve told you more than once to hit them on the hand, not the head.’ I felt my head and realised she was talking about me. It seemed the teacher had hit me on the head and knocked me out, and I’d only come to after they’d poured water over me. ‘Bring your children up properly!’ the headmistress told my father, having called him into the school. ‘This one has no shame. Drawing hearts, writing love letters, idle gossiping.’ My father certainly got the message. That day, I learnt that ‘bring up properly’ meant ‘beat.’ But I still didn’t know what drawing hearts meant, or what the headmistress had meant about love letters and idle gossip. I wasn’t allowed to ask. From that day on and for many years afterwards I was no longer able to ask questions, or to even include a question mark in any of my assignments. In fact, I couldn’t so much as think about using one. Perhaps during those years I forgot what a question mark was. At the end of any uncertain phrase or sentence I would simply put a full stop to mute its uncertainty. Or I’d add a second full stop to silence it completely. When was it that I finally remembered the existence of question marks? Whenever it was, I began to add them to the end of every single line, whether one was needed or not. No one can tell you about life’s hardships Like someone who has lost their loved ones can. Once, there were boys in my life: cousins, uncles, the neighbours’ children. They were my friends and loved ones. When I turned eight they disappeared as though they’d never existed. I am a girl, therefore I should not talk about them, or even mention their names. ‘Careful, my girl. It’s a sin.’ I really wanted Mother to explain to me why it was a sin. I figured that stating this desire would be just that, a statement. But then I thought again and decided against it. I reasoned that the desire to understand was in fact a type of question, and I had no right to be asking questions. Nashwan, who lived close by, was around the same age as me. He was really good at making paper kites. Every child in the neighbourhood had a kite, but Nashwan’s was still the best. It could fly further and higher than all the others. He would chase after it, clutching the string, as the kite flew higher and higher. He flew his kite like an ace pilot. I never imagined that the kite would slip from his grasp one day. The last time we met he had the string wrapped around all ten of his fingers. Leaping and whooping, he raised his hands above his head and spread his fingers, letting the string unspool completely until he freed the very end of the string. I watched the kite as it floated off. ‘Why did you let it fly away from you?’ I asked Nashwan. ‘It hasn’t, I’m flying with it,’ he said. I wanted to ask him why he didn’t take me with him, but it was too late; Nashwan had already floated far, far away from me.