The Rebel

Amina-4

“Are you still in touch with her? Has my mother tried to get in touch with me since my birth?”

My God. If he tells me now that they are in contact, I will faint right on the spot. I am split between two feelings; I don’t even know what I want to hear more. Dad lifts his head angrily; the melancholy is gone without a trace.

“I haven’t seen her since your birth. We agreed that it would be best for you as well. You are a princess, and you had to grow up accordingly, not like some street kid, wandering around the world.”

Strangely, I feel almost relieved when I hear this. I don’t know how I could get over the fact if they were still in touch, while my mother is able to act like I don’t even exist. I almost blurt out the question before thinking about it first:

“How old was she when you met her?”

My father’s shoulder shivers slightly, his hand makes a fist.

“Twenty-one.”

I will soon be that old too. I break out in sweat; I rub my shaking hand over my forehead. Just then, it hits home that I don’t even know her name. I suspect I might step onto wafer thin ice, but I must give it a try.

“What’s my mother’s name?”

He looks at me with eyes aflame, and moves towards us with a speed contradicting his age Hamid and I recoil at the same time.

“Your mother’s name is Nasirah. It has always been so, and will never change. You don’t need to know any more about this,” he roars with temper, making me take another step back, colliding into Hamid. He grabs my arm and hisses my name under his breath. I know he wants to warn me not to go too far, and he’s right. My father’s moment of honesty has passed, he turns towards the window, his body language says our conversation is over.

I shiver as Hamid speaks up next to me. The question he asks is also of interest to me, so I honestly hope there will be an answer to it.

“Who else knows about this?”

Dad takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

“A few people,” he replies with a dry voice. When neither of us moves and we wait quietly, he goes on reluctantly. “My father and my siblings, but they have sworn not to tell the secret to anyone, and have so far kept their word. Then there is also Kareem and Saud sheikh,” he adds after a little pause.

Kareem. Of course. Why doesn’t it surprise me more that my oldest brother knows about the secret regarding my identity? Is that why he has always been so mean and strict with me? As I give it another thought, it seems logical that Kareem knows about the situation, as he is seven years older than me. Hamid, on the other hand, was only two when my father took me home.

Obviously, they couldn’t hide such an important detail from Saud sheikh about the identity of his future bride. My damned photo must have made a deep impression on him if he still insists on making me his wife.

In the place of these few answered questions, a hundred new ones appear. I want to know much more about the woman who gave birth to me. I wish to know what she looked like, whether I resemble her, what she thinks about life, what she believes in. I want to question her how she was able to give up her child. I want to know if she misses me, does she ever think about me, and was she in love with my father.

My father looks worn as turning halfway his back on us, he exhaustedly smooths his beard with a hand. I have the feeling that regardless of all his masculine harshness, recalling the past makes a mark on him, and now he feels embarrassed because we witnessed his revelation. He doesn’t normally share such personal things about himself, so now he wants to get rid of us as quick as possible. Hamid must think the same, because he lightly touches my shoulder and points towards the exit with his chin. My common sense tells me it’s time to retreat, but again, my curiosity and daringness like many times, takes the better of me.

“Did you love her?” I blurt out the question while I hear Hamid cursing under his nose.

Dad answers without casting a glance at us.

“Leave me alone. Right away.”

＊

I curl up on top of the bed, going through every detail of my father’s story, again and again. Actually, I should hate this English woman for not wanting to be my mother, yet, I feel nothing of the sort. It would be silly to judge someone without knowing what was in the background for her reasons. When I think about her, what I feel is sadness. I dig out a childhood photo album from the wardrobe, and nestle myself in the bed again. I need something to hold on to, a sense of security, I feel like I am drifting over a void. I already know the pictures, each one, yet, now I’m looking at them with a different eye. I take notice of details that I overlooked in the past. Who is my father giving a nicer smile, Rafa or me?

Desperately, I study Nasirah’s face in the pictures, in case I can detect something that gives it away that she looks at me differently, she touches me differently than her own children, but I see nothing like that. The truth is, I have never felt ignored, emotionally neglected in this family. What’s more, probably due to my heated temper, I received more attention than Rafa or even Hamid. Kareem’s position, thanks to his being the first-born and the fact that the Almighty has blessed him with an X and a Y chromosome, will never be shaken.

It’s a fact that Nasirah had more fights with me, but I can’t hold that against her, because those frequent conflicts mostly originated from my fierce nature. I can’t imagine how she felt when her husband suddenly informed her that besides her own kids, she has to raise his lover’s child as well. What humiliation the obvious proof of her husband’s open affair must have been. I can hardly imagine she would have risked a divorce from her disloyal husband. Even if they had been separated, the two boys would have stayed with my father by all means, so, unless she wanted to lose her family, she needed to swallow this bitter pill.

I don’t even go downstairs to eat, and from the fact that they are not sending for me, I conclude that everyone else is in a lousy mood in the family. Evening finds me in my room, the maid brings me food, but I can’t even swallow a bite. The more I leaf through the albums, the more deceitful the family idyll depicted in the photos looks like. Something similar awaits me too. Riches, material safety in an endless emotional vacuum.

Upset, I throw the photo album to the floor when I suddenly hear a knock on the door. I can hardly believe my eyes when my father steps inside, and after some hesitation, he approaches my bed.

“Dad!” I burst out with wonder.

I get out of the bed and hurriedly fix my clothes while he averts his eyes and pretends to study the interior. He folds his hands behind his back and slowly nods as if he was selecting his words with great care.

“About the thing we were talking about today…,” he begins, and I definitely feel that he intentionally tries to force neutrality in his voice. The “thing”. You mean, my life?” I fume. “I don’t want you to hold your mother in a different regard from now on. Nasirah has always been good to you, and she is worthy of your respect.”

“I know, and I will respect her, be sure about that.”

“I want everything to stay the way it was. Get the whole issue out of your head, and focus on your future. On your wedding.”

He can’t possibly be serious! How could I get it all out of my head?

“You ask an impossible thing, father,” I groan desperately, but he goes on as if he hasn’t heard my interruption.

“I have a reason why I won’t tell you your birth mother’s name. I don’t want you to seek contact with her,” he says so coldly that an icy shiver runs down my spine.

“Would you have ever told me? I mean… if Nasirah hadn’t accidentally spilled the secret, would you have ever told me that she is not my real mother?”

He stares at me with narrowed eyes, his hand contracts into a fist angrily. I know I made a mistake calling Nasirah by her name, but I can’t take it back.

“No,” he shakes his head and turns away. “It’s pointless to brood over the past. Let bygones be bygones.”

“But I— “I want to continue, but he stops me with a single gesture of rejection.

“She also wanted it to be like this, because this was the best solution for everybody.” I listen looking down, feeling hurt. “And don’t rebel against the wedding. The sheikh is not a bad man, he will give you everything.” Is that how little he knows me? Doesn’t he get that he’s signing my death sentence by forcing me to marry him? Then, as he gets on with his dark monologue, it slowly begins to dawn on me what is in the background. “You have a lot of things from your mother. You are disobedient, stubborn. You keep rebelling, and it can’t end well, my daughter. Marriage will place you on the right path, you will calm down, and once you have children, you’ll see everything in a different light,” he says, almost in a fatherly way, but it doesn’t move me. My stomach is upset, I am feeling nauseous.

So, he sees a lot of my mother’s characteristics in me, and he wants to kill all these while he can. He wants to take revenge for her disobedience on me. He thinks he does right by forcing me to marry, killing the rebellious European in me. Well, he is wrong if he thinks it works like that. The more he forces me, the more I will resist. I speak up with a voice shaken by emotions, while tears are tightening my throat.

“You will kill me if you force me to marry him.”

“Nonsense,” he waves with irritation, and turning his back, he starts towards the exit.

I am broken by the recognition that my father will not change his mind about the marriage. He has never acted so stubbornly with me, but this thing is obviously a heart matter, and he will not relent until he sees me as Saud sheikh’s wife. My future, my plans, my dreams are all scattered to pieces before my eyes, and there is nothing I can do about it. Tears are running down my cheeks. I want to lie on the floor and die.

My father stops in the door with his back to me, his hand is on the door handle, but he’s not making a move just yet. Before he would leave, he takes a slow turn, and speaks to me in a surprisingly remorseful voice.

“You asked if I loved her,” he sighs deeply, and together with his tone, his facial expressions also ease. “I loved her in my own way, but it wasn’t enough for her.”

Chapter 3