The Rebel

Amina-1

Amina

Although so far everything has been going by the plan, I can hardly control my nerves, my stomach is full of butterflies. When I told dad that Rashid was escorting us, he gave green light to my programme, and I could see he was even a little happy that I’m not sitting at home, I guess he takes shopping and spending as a good sign, he must think life is returning into me.

As I planned, I only informed Nasirah at the last minute, and when she heard where we were going, she didn’t even offer to join me. She only asked if my father knew about it, and who was accompanying us.

I have checked at least twenty times if I had everything in my tote bag necessary for my hair, and hope Selina won’t forget any part of my disguise either. The heat is almost unbearable, and whenever I remember that soon I will be wearing about three times the usual clothes, I get dizzy. Sitting in the car, I try to arrange my thoughts, but by the time the question arises, what the hell I will do when I am faced with Saud sheikh, Omar is already parking in front of the al-Nuaimi villa. Selina is wearing her usual black abaya and hijab, but her face is not veiled, so I spot right away she is nervous.

While progressing on the hyper-modern, six-lane road, we talked about all kinds of insignificant stuff, so that Omar wouldn’t get wind of anything. He is driving at a comfortable speed, and I’m dangerously close to shouting at him to press that damn gas pedal and not to drive as if he had fallen asleep at the steering wheel.

As he parks at the deep garage at last, the three of us quickly get out of the car. I tell Omar we will be awhile, because we have also have an appointment for Selina at the hairdressers, so I have no idea when we finish. Omar acknowledges with eyes downcast that his whole afternoon and evening would be spent waiting, but he doesn’t say a word.

On the upper floor we choose a toilet at the end of the corridor, the one that looks the most abandoned, while Rashid sits into a coffeehouse and waits for us there. Selina and I lock ourselves into a cubicle, I quickly take off my own clothes and she’s already busy taking the thobe out of her bag. I made sure to put on a sports bra, that flattens the breasts some, then Selina rolls the silk around me. Finally, I get into the thobe. I’m sitting on the toilet lid as she pins my hair under the net, puts the shemagh and the agal on me. I sense her hand quivering at times, and she has to start again and again to be able to fix everything at the right place. She takes the makeup stuff and thickens my eyebrows, then makes my eyelashes fairer, so my eyes don’t stick out so much. After she is done, we go to the wall with the mirrors inside the longish washroom, where I can take a look at myself, and confirm my disguise is as good as it can get under such amateurish circumstances. I think if I keep a distance with everyone and never get into a private conversation I will not be caught. I don’t look too manly, but I might pass for a teenage boy. After all, not every man is two metres tall, broad-shouldered and hairy as an ape. I don’t feel too liberated, but laughter still bursts from me as I lean close to the mirror and see the scarily lifelike pockmarks on my face. Selina is a real makeup artist.

Just to be on the safe side, she pushes me back into the cubicle, and I peek through the ajar door as she folds flat the plastic bag that has my abaya and hijab. She takes a roll of cell tape out of her bag, tears off a piece, squats down and sticks the bag to the bottom of the washbasin’s counter. Good heavens! Just like in a crime story. When she is ready, she glances back at me, and I grin back at her, shaking my head. She goes to the door to see if I can leave the toilet safely, then beckons that I can come.

“Are you ready?” she asks severely.

I take a deep breath, encouragingly squeeze my friend’s hand, even force a smile on my face.

“I’m ready.”

My knees are shaking like jelly, I glue my eyes before me, without looking left or right. Seeing Rashid’s astonished gaze, I’m not far from running back into the toilet, but I compose myself. I have a goal. I want to face the sheikh, take a close look at him, and it’s only possible like this, in a disguise. I can’t back down now.

Anyhow, it looks like nobody is taking any notice of me. I’m walking between the two of them, and have the feeling that robed in her abaya and hijab, Selina gets more attention than me, the teenage boy with spots on his face. I’m beginning to calm down.

The closer we get to Sharjah, the longer are our silences in the car. Rashid is driving, and stares out of the windshield with a stern stare. He only casts me a flat look every now and then. We all nervous.

We get out of the car and approaching the entrance I see here are a lot of people, there is a big buzz. Just now, the animals are being led away after a race, and the crowd is making its way back into the club house. I may have participated in a camel derby twice in my life, with my father and Hamid, but even that was long ago. Our family has always preferred horses, and Kareem is also happier to attend horse races with his friends. In any case, I know that in the club guests are strongly categorized. There are really cheap tickets meant for tourists and simple local people who can’t afford or don’t want to pay much for the tickets. That’s not where we go, we head for the VIP area. Only members of the extended royal family, the owners of the racing animals and very rich businessmen with their families are entitled to enter.

When we are finally inside, I don’t even dare look up. My first destination is the table with all the refreshments. My throat is so dry with nervousness like the desert. I grab a glass of lemonade and drink it up in one. I feel stupid in this thobe as well. It’s so… unusual, even though, the truth is, it’s only a robe. It doesn’t differ much from an abaya that women wear, it still annoys me. Selina and Rashid position themselves on my sides, and I see that their heads are rotating like a fan.

“Is he here? Can you see him somewhere?” I ask with excitement, but they are only shaking their heads.

“Amina, act normal. Stop touching the shemagh on your head or you’ll end up pulling it down,” Selina hisses.

“Have you gone insane?” Rashid sneers at her. “To Allah, you’ve lost your mind. Don’t call her by her name. Or do you want us to be caught?”

Selina quickly covers her mouth with her hand. Rashid’s right. I didn’t even realize that she has called me Amina, and not even too quietly. What amateurs we are!

“Stay together. I’ll take a walk around to see if the sheikh is here somewhere,” says Rashid.

Slowly, I look around to size up my surroundings, and my eyes are met with a young man’s. I’m just about to cast down my eyes when he ends up looking away without the slightest signs of interest, and he turns his back. Of course! What would excite him about me? When I see that people are simply looking through me, I begin to calm down, and at last I start to observe the place around me. Most people are standing beside the wall-to-wall glass window, watching the events going on outside. Preparations are being made for the next race, evening out the sand, leading away the animals and bringing new ones. Richly laid buffet tables are lined on the other side of the spacious room, but hardly anybody is eating. I hear that the men are discussing their bets, the sure-to-be horses, and the animals’ injuries. Selina and I walk over to the window, and talk in a whisper. The more I know my disguise is working, the more the tension is easing up, and I’m also surprised at how much I’m starting to enjoy the situation. I study the people thoroughly, and it’s downright liberating to be able to look freely someone in the eye. We niqab-wearing Emirates women are not used to sizing up strange men. It is believed in our community that in certain situations men might interpret eye-contact as a s****l call. Touching a stranger is definitely a taboo. Impressions of my life in England come over me, because that was the last place I felt as free at a public place. If Kareem wasn’t with us, I didn’t wear an abaya, just a light hijab on my hair. Hamid never scolded me for it when I wore a simple pair of jeans and a sweater, as did most students. Of course, boys were trying their luck with me, but not more than with my female friends, so I didn’t even feel an outsider on that front. I was of course different in the sense that I didn’t fully give myself to any of them, but I probably couldn’t have done it if I had been allowed to and my brothers hadn’t been breathing don my neck all the time. With Sean, our relationship didn’t get far enough for me to feel it was the right time, and of course, we never had the opportunity. The poor boy would have been eviscerated by Kareem in the middle of the street if it had turned out that he took away my virginity. That damned virginity! – I grumble inside. It’s only good to make a girl’s life difficult. Just like a stigma on our forehead. Its presence increases, its lack decreases our worth. Men are driven by the fever that they want to be the first to take away a girl’s virginity. I often think about it as some kind of a burden I would like to rid myself of as soon as possible. As I walk around among men with freedom, shedding for the first time of my life the weights caused by my being a female, I am filled by a mood to express some wisdom. I grab a glass of iced tea and softly begin to talk to Selina.

“Do you think women find it equally important that their future husband should be untouched, or are only men obsessed by the idea?”

Selina’s lemonade goes down the wrong way, and she begins to hawk in a very unladylike way. When she manages to breathe normally again, she gives me an incredulous look.

“What?” she whispers under her nose.

“Just a thought,” I shrug my shoulders. “I guess, because of the men’s clothes. I think you should also try it. It’s not so bad. On the contrary! It’s quite an interesting feeling.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she rolls her eyes.

“Seriously, though. Would you like your husband to be untouched before your marriage?” I ask in a whisper.

The question is actually an absurd one, since it is not expected from any Arabian man to join marriage as a virgin, and we both know that. Even though pre-marital s*x is forbidden in theory, people turn a blind eye over any man’s adventures, while they expect us to be intact on our wedding day.

“Are you serious about discussing this issue right here?” she flashes her eyes on me, and in her embarrassment, she takes some horse brochure from the stand beside the wall. She begins to leaf through it as if she was even just a bit interested in the topic. Then, shrugging her shoulders phlegmatically, she answers offhandedly: “By the way, no.”

I give her a big grin. I was positive she wouldn’t drop the subject.

“No?” I ask, with eyebrows raised.

“I don’t find it important for him to be intact. I mean, I’m not so stupid that I would hope for something like that.”

“I knew it!” I jab a finger at her a bit too vehemently and loudly, making us both turn around with embarrassment, but luckily no one is paying any attention. “I knew,” I repeat more quietly, yet with triumph.

“Some things are more important,” she continues pensively.

“See, this is exactly my point. I feel the same. If I was to choose my husband, virginity would absolutely not be of primary importance.”

“Of course, it helps if he is handsome and appealing,” she smiles conspiratorially, “but the point is still that he should love me and I should love him back, and that we would get along.”

“Not to mention, what would two complete amateurs do with one another on the wedding night? But seriously,” I nudge my friend jokingly, “how clumsy an untouched man would be with a virgin girl by the time they would figure out what goes where— “