The Rebel

Amina-3

I I’m pricking my ears as much as I can to catch a few words from the sheikh’s conversation with the other man, but I can make out very little. I cast sideway glances, carefully studying the sheikh’s face, his reactions, I analyse his words as if every single detail had significance. He’s not rough, nor rowdy, more like reserved, yet there is something sneaky about his gestures that makes me shiver. I can’t explain why, but I feel like this man is not straight-forward. He looks meek from the outside, yet, whenever he looks at me, my stomach tightens. I feel sick thinking about the wedding, I get nauseous, even shiver involuntarily when I am faced with the hopelessness of my situation. Selina looks at me with worry, asking with her eyes if I’m all right. I sigh and my mouth forms a bitter smile. I pull closer to Rashid, prodding his shoulder with my own and whisper into his ear:

“Ask him when he’s getting married.”

He turns to me and looks at me as if I had cursed his mother. He shakes his head and turns towards the men again. I give him another push.

“Ask him how things are progressing with his wedding,” I encourage him.

He turns towards me and squeezes the words out of his teeth in a way that I can hardly hear it.

“I can’t do that, and you know it.”

“Why not? He was also asking about your family, wasn’t he?” I hiss, but I know that he’s right.

It’s indeed not the same. Rashid is a young thing, a nobody compared to Saud sheikh. It’s already a great honour that he got into a conversation with him.

“Just because I can’t,” he murmurs back, and purposely turns his back on me, to make me stop bothering him.

Sulking, I begin to chew on my nails already cut to the stem, and watch as down at the tracks, in the midst of shouts and calls to the camels, the race is started. The animals start running at the same time as the bars are lifted in front of them.

There is a great hustle, the beaters are shouting from the side, you can even hear the engines of the jeeps from behind the glass as the mad chase begins. Rashid is taken up in the excitement, he jumps up from his seat, and pressing his palms against the glass wall, he is cheering. I glance to the side and see that although the sheikh is not standing up, he is stirring in his seat, stretching his neck so as to see better. He calls to Rashid to tell him which camel to watch, then lays back and strokes his beard with contentment. I look at his hand, the neatly manicured nails, the impeccably shaved beard, and hate even that about him. Not because he’s ugly or appalling, but because the whole man as he is, symbolizes my future captivity, the losing of my free will.

I think of my studies at Epsom, my plans about a photographer’s degree in London. I’d even chosen a university where photography training is outstanding, but before I could blink twice, I was brought back to Ras al-Khaimah. I’m angry, disappointed and discouraged, and as I look into the sheikh’s face again, I feel like I could puke. My stomach is seriously upset, I feel warm, and this damn silk that we have rolled around me is too tight around my chest. I urgently need a cold drink if I don’t want to throw up. I lower the shemagh on my sweaty forehead, clear my throat and, feigning a low voice I whisper to Rashid that I’m going for a drink. I almost stumble over the thobe in my eagerness to get to the bar. With shivering hands, I grab a glass of lemonade, and knock it back with a less than feminine move. It helps, my body and agitated thoughts are somewhat cooled. I take a few deep breaths and my eyes wander over to the sheikh again, but this time I’m watching him from behind. At last, the mission has been accomplished, I got as close to him as I would never have dreamed of, and managed to take a good look at him. But as I see that the sheikh’s friend leans over to him and they begin to talk, I feel my naughty side getting the better of me, even though I can’t help it. I’m dying to hear what they are talking about. This is my chance of a lifetime to witness the private and uncensored conversation of two men.

Slowly, I start back towards the booth, nobody is taking any notice of me, everybody is busy with the race. Instead of entering, though, I lean against the doorframe about a yard behind the sheikh and his friend, and pretend to look through the glass. Out of the corner of my eye I see Selina’s face jerk with nervousness as she tries to let me know without words that I’m out of my mind. In a barely noticeable way, she gestures me to sit back beside her, but I just shake my head and putting my finger against my lips I signal that she should remain quiet. My heart is racing, I feel the blood beating in my eardrum. With all my might, I’m focusing on catching a little bit of the two men’s conversation, and I manage to do that. I don’t know if it’s fate’s goodwill or grimace, but I have to hold on to the door when I clearly catch the word wedding in the other man’s talk. I am eavesdropping like never before in my life.

“We are signing it next week,” I hear Saud sheikh’s confident voice, at which the other man nods with a grin, and asks something else that I do not really catch.

“That won’t be an issue,” The sheikh answers.

Then he mentions a sum in US dollars that could easily cover the annual budget of a minor African country. For sure, they are talking about the marriage contract that is to be signed next week. This means that amount is my life’s worth. My virginity. My mouth is pulled into a bitter smile. Quite fairly, it’s an exuberant price. If only my father and Saud sheikh would know that I would even give it free of charge if I could do that out of love.

Then I can make out some other words – it’s all arranged, I’ve prepared it, in the palace. I shiver with the shocking recognition that these people here are talking about me, my future. Dizzily, I continue listening, and I could swear now I hear my brother, Kareem’s name from the sheikh’s mouth. What the hell could that mean? How is all this connected to my brother? It could of course be possible that he and the sheikh know one another well, but how does Kareem get into the picture when it’s about my wedding with Saud sheikh? I can’t comprehend. The more I hear, the more confused I am. Other sentence parts hit my ear, such as, when… the last time… Cairo.

They both laugh, and the other man stirs in his seat with excitement. I hear another name, and things like, it’s all organized, the visit will happen even before the wedding. I have an idea why the sheikh is visiting Cairo prior to his wedding, and I bet it’s not about business. I just can’t listen to them anymore. I close my eyes, desperately trying to hold back my tears that are welling up in my eyes. The thought flashed through my mind for a moment that I would remove the shemagh from my head and the thobe, toss them at the sheikh and give him a piece of my mind. I would shout into my face what I think about his disgusting Cairo trips and about him purchasing young virgins to marry them. I am desirous to do that, but I have to control my rage. The bitter lesson comes to my mind that I have learned a while back: I can never win in an open argument with a man. I need to remain smart and cool of I want to survive. Other than that, I would expose Selina to enormous danger if I lost my head, and letting my temper take the better of me, I would make a scene. I push myself away from the doorframe, and try to pretend I’m returning into the booth. Rashid takes a step towards me and asks if I have managed to find the drinks. I nod and collapse next to Selina. Rashid, thank goodness, says at last that it’s time we left, so both Selina and I rise to our feet with obedience and like good children, say goodbye to Saud sheikh and his friend. I take one last glance at his face, his dark, almond eyes, growing double chin, manicured hands, and clearly feel inside me that I’d rather die than to be this man’s wife.

On our way out, we run into Ahmad and his chubby friend. They exchange a few words about the race and the camels, even now he is very friendly with Rashid, and I think he’d be the same with me if I got into a conversation with him, but I choose to remain in the background. He must take me for some inhibited teenager who is challenged socially, and I leave him in that belief. Ahmad is now absolutely likeable, which confuses me a little, because this ruins my well-established apathy I for his dad. I spot him casting some sideways glances at Selina, of whom one can see no more than the upper part of her face from the hijab, but she’s still beautiful with her glittering eyes, her dark eyeliner. I hope the poor boy won’t develop crossed eyes in the effort. I would even smile at him if I wasn’t in such a lousy mood. When we say goodbye, Ahmad, albeit keeping the necessary distance, says it very polite to Selina specifically, and I seem to notice through the hijab that her face turns red. Any other time this thing would warm my heart and romantic fantasies would flood my mind, but now I’m in a sulky mood, so all I feel is growing bitterness. Love? Oh, please. What an illusion.

There are only wedding contracts, dowries and lustful nights in Cairo with prostitutes exposed to men.

We get into the car and finally heave a sigh of relief. We weren’t caught. We did it. Although getting changed back into my clothes at RAK shopping mall is still to be done, but that is child’s play compared to what we’ve been through. As Rashid turns to face me in the car and laughs at me with a triumphant, contented face, I swear for a moment I feel he will lift his hand for a high-five to celebrate our successful mission. Then, he doesn’t do it of course, but I think he was really close to it. A shame. For one thing, because there can’t be informality, relaxed friendship without tension and taboos between us. Is it only this way in this place? Are we the only ones so tensed, or can there be no friendship between a girl and a boy in other parts of the world either?

Still in the car, I call Omar telling him what time to pick us up at one of the cafes in RAK. As we get out of the car in the underground garage, we aim for the toilets, and now I move much more confidently in my thobe. I straighten myself and make a point not to avoid people’s eyes. How little it takes for someone to feel confident! I’ve only had men’s clothing on for a few hours, but I already feel strong, relentless. No, it’s not wearing men’s clothes that I enjoy, after all, I like being a woman. It’s a sensation of freedom and equality that this wear gives you. The fact that I don’t have to hide from eyes, that people don’t see me as someone’s property, forbidden object, but as an equal partner. Or, maybe they don’t see me in any way, but completely ignore me, which is also a refreshing alternative.