The Rebel

Amina “Never. Do you understand? Never. I’d rather remain a spinster for life or die, but I will not marry him,” I shout at the top of my lungs, and slam the door shut behind me. I am dead meat – the horrifying thought crosses my mind. My father is also yelling on the other side of the door, from his side of the house, the noises of crashing and furniture-throwing can be heard. He has never freaked out like this, and I have never been so disrespectful, but I had no other choice. I fix my gaze in front of myself, and like a wild beast, I rush towards my own rooms. The staff, taken aback, part to make way for me, they are not used to seeing me like this, and it’s new to them that the al-Hosani house is echoing with the loud shouting of my father and one of his children. Well, they will have to grow accustomed to this, because I will not stay quiet and suck up this present situation, for sure. I am determined to go all the way. I will go on hunger strike, shave my head, or go into hiding, but I will not get married! Especially not to Saud bin Zayed al-Hosani, who is more than twice as old as me. My angry footsteps make a sharp sound against the marble floor, they are echoed on the honey-coloured, gold-inlaid walls. As I pass by a mirror, I catch a glance of myself. The gold glittering around me reflects the shade of honey mixed with the grey of my eyes. The memory painfully pierces through me that my father, exactly as the whole family, has always praised the colour of my eyes. In our circles the light colour of the eyes is considered exceptional, and fate has blessed me with this unique feature. In my childhood I hated looking different from the others around me, but my father’s words of praise had always put me to rest. Every time he looked at my fair, honey-coloured hair with a dreamy gaze, and staring into my eyes, called me his gem, I felt like flying. I saw myself as a beautiful princess, and not only because I was the daughter of Tariq bin Khalid bin Faisal al-Hosani, Prince of the Ras al-Khaimah Emirate, but because I was also one in my heart. My father’s gem, his special princess. That’s why I can’t comprehend how he is able to trample on this gem, and throw his princess over to an aging sheikh, when he knows the thought appals me. I tear the door of my suite open and slam it behind me, making the whole floor shake. With quivering hands, I try to rip off the abaya I had put on when my father summoned me. I am rushing, but the more I want to rid myself of it, the more it twists around me, like some rope. It chokes me, rolls around me tight, and my tears are rolling down my cheeks with helplessness. It feels like a symbol to me. I feel exposed, subordinated, someone whose fate depends on the male relatives’ good will. I’m already sobbing when I finally manage to rip it off me, the black fabric reaches down to my soles. For the first time in my life, I look at my father as my enemy, and it breaks my heart. I don’t feel proud or liberated for standing up against him, my rebellion does not fill me with satisfaction. I have always been his obedient child, but. to be honest, it has never been hard to do until now. I know my father loves me, and I’m also aware of the fact that compared to the other princes of the emirate, Tariq al-Hosani holds rather modern views. Maybe that’s what has made life with him so easy. After all, there are not many princesses in the emirate who had the opportunity to be educated in England in her teens, who had the privilege to learn to drive a car or ride a horse. My father has never kept me and my sister on a short leash as our uncles do with their daughters. Maybe I have grown accustomed to too much freedom, that’s why his announcement took me by such surprise: he had promised me to his cousin, the oil billionaire Saud al-Hosani sheikh. He promised. Me. Allah in heaven, help me! I throw myself on my bed, hold my pillow tight against me, crying, as I wait for the marble floor to suck my under. My eyes are bloated with crying, and I know my mother will be angry because I am making myself ugly. Beauty, grace is the biggest value of a woman” – she keeps saying. “It is an asset that give power to her over men”. “Wars broke out, princes changed their judgment due to the impact of a beautiful pair of eyes, so whatever Allah has given you, you should handle it smartly, my daughter!” – she often reasons. I’m sure she will not be overjoyed to see me in this state. As a knock comes to my door, I suddenly shudder. Please, don’t let it be mum! Or what could be worse, my father may have come after me, to punish me, to confine me to my room until my wedding day. My heart is beating in my throat as I shout, “Come in.” I am relieved to see my younger sister, Rafa sticking her hijab-clad head through the opening. I mentally roll my eyes as I take sight of her. I love my sister, but sometimes she just makes me shout. I don’t know another eighteen-year-old who would veil herself even in her own home, in front of her family, regardless the fact that nobody expects her to. Of all of us, Rafa is the most conservative, and I have the feeling she is trying to impress my father with her modesty. Another characteristic that is absolutely missing in me. Rafa and I are like fire and water. This may be the reason why we are not close. I love her, but she is not my confidante. I would never share my secrets with her, and I don’t believe she has anything to share. I wave to her to enter. “The house is ringing with dad’s shouting. What have you done this time?” she asks with an intonation as if she wasn’t the younger sister. This time. I hate it when she assumes that I have done something. Of course, she is right, because when my father lifts his voice, it’s either because of me or my brother, Hamid, never because of her or our oldest brother. Still. Why is she acting like a saint? I purposely ignore her question, and answer with another question. “What is he doing? Have you talked to him?” “Me? Of course not,” she responds with a shock. That’s right, what was I thinking? Rafa just lays low until the storm dies off. She would never go into father’s sight when he is so angry, risking he would take it out on her. “He’s not even talking to mum now. I heard him calling Ibrahim, then storm out. I don’t think we will see him again today.” She is right, I have never seen my dead so out of control before. When he is angry, he usually goes to see his second wife, Ayisha, and punishes us with his absence for two days. I don’t envy the poor soul; she always has to see my father when he is upset. Of course, it’s also possible that he goes to my elder brother, Kareem, to let the steam blow off. I bet Kareem is in on the wedding negotiations, and my mother also knows about it. Without the cooperation of women these things are never enforced. This is the day of her ritual bath at the hammam once a week, and she would never miss it for the world. Usually Rafa and I also go with her, but today my father insisted that I stay at home because he wanted to speak to me. When he asked me, I had no idea it was going to be about my future, what’s more, that it was already decided. I must interrogate my mother! “So, mother has already come back from the bath?” “I think she’s on her way here, to you. She must want to find out what this mess was with dad.” I suspect not only my mother, but Rafa is also interested to know why we were having a fight, and I am not disappointed. She sits next to me on the bed, and lifts her large, dark brown eyes on me. I wipe my face into the sleeve of my blouse, smooth down my hair and sit up. “I guess I’m beginning to understand why mum recently wanted me to go to the hammam with her. They want to marry me off, and for certain, mum wants to show off with me in front of the sheikh’s mother. If I only knew which one it was from those old women,” I chew on my nails musingly. In theory I should know her face, as my prospective mother-in-law is also the mother of Ras-al-Khaimah’s emir, but in the bath, everyone looks so alike. “They want you to marry a sheikh? Heavens!” she claps her hands. At her intonation, I pick up my head. There is not a single trace of indignation, what I hear is more like enthusiasm. “I see, you didn’t know about it,” I note with a frown. “I had no idea. Nobody tells me anything in this place,” she shrugs with resentment. That’s actually true. She may well be eighteen years old, yet, Rafa is treated by everyone like a child, and the way she sneaks around people only adds to that. “What sheikh?” she asks with excitement. “Saud al-Hosani,” I spit out the name with disgust. “The oil billionaire? The emir’s little brother? Wow!” she claps her hands together again. “I saw him on TV. He has a lot of greyhounds. The other day there was a show and you could see how he was racing them…” I jump up from the bed and face her with my hands on my hips. I am dangerously close to slapping her. Is she really telling me about greyhounds and races, as if my life and my future weren’t at stake? “Okay, just stop, all right?” I shut her up angrily. “The sheikh is old as the hills, and…” I freeze, because at this moment our mother enters. Her voice is loud and clear, giving me the final assurance that she is also part of the plan. “The sheikh is 43 years old.” I stare at her, petrified. Is she trying to suggest that he is not old? After all, he might not be, when I consider age, but he looks ancient, considering I am only 20. Hoping for some support, I look at my sister, but she only lowers her eyes with modesty. “You can’t be serious! he could be my father,” I break out with despair. “Nonsense!” she waves with temper. “He has heard about your beauty and wishes to marry you. That’s a great honour,” my mother responds, gently stroking my face. “An honour? For whom?” I groan with pain. She casts me a reprimanding eye, and pouting her perfectly red lips, she begins to fix my messy hair. My mother, Nasirah is 44, but she is still very attractive, giving a lot of attention to her looks. her face displays some typical Arabian features: thick eyebrows, brown almond eyes, straight nose, voluptuous lips – no wonder father fell in love with her back then. It must have been a slap in the face when he acquired another wife after Rafa’s birth. And this is to await me as well unless I think of something quickly. I must find some allies, but in my own family the only person I can possibly count on is my brother, Hamid. “Saud sheikh is a very influential man, and last but not least, he is the youngest brother of the emir. It is an honour that he has chosen you. “I will not be anybody’s zillionth wife!” I scream with rage. If these people think I will endure with a silent obedience to be thrown at the emir’s brother, expecting me to be even thrilled about it, they are very wrong. “Calm down, daughter. Drama will only ruin your beauty.” This is what really makes me want to scream. My mother grabs both my shoulders and gives me a big shake so my hair falls into my face again. I respect my mother and admire her peace of mind with which she endures my father’s arrangements; I wouldn’t be able to tolerate such things from my husband that she turns a blind eye to. That’s another reason why I’m sure this whole plan with the sheikh and I is a horrible idea. I lack the kind of humility that, say, Rafa has. I’m afraid the honourable Saud sheikh would want to strangle me after a week because of my behaviour. Or could it be they don’t see that? Or maybe they can very well see it, and they want to force me to marry as soon as possible for the very reason? My mother takes my hand and pulls me after her. With a straight back, she sits in my favourite reading chair, and I sit at her feet. With a sigh, she draws my hand into her lap, and beckons to my sister to join us. Rafa jumps up from my bed, tiptoes to us, and kneels down next to me. I study her face, and somehow, she looks very serious now, I would even say her eyes seem to be stern, which takes me by complete surprise. She is always like an unshakable bastion, a firm rock in the storm, but now she looks agitated. As if something is troubling her. A little hope wakes in me that she might also disagree with the idea of the marriage, and if I play my cards well, I will manage to take her to my side. She squeezes my hand and gives me a smile, but her smile is forced, not genuine.