Inshallah E-Book

Alys Einion

• Herausgeber: Honno Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

With twin boys only months old, Amanda arrives in Saudi Arabia to live with her husband Mohammed. Her new life is strange and confusing and sometimes frightening. Amanda can barely understand Arabic and the treatment of the women of the family seems wrong to a girl raised in Wales. To add to her problems, Mohammed proves to be verbally and physically abusive - especially once they have their own flat away from the protection of the wider family. Somehow Amanda must escape but not without her children.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title pageDedicationAcknowledgementsBaraaHawāBilgaibiQaulHāsibShānMaknūnMunkarBālZikrunThaqalSā-ïlīnJihādMustaqarrMutakallifIkrāmHanīfZurrīyatWahyunBayānFawāqHalīmQalb SalīmMa’rūfHawāGlossary of Arabic Words used as TitlesAbout the AuthorMore from HonnoAbout HonnoCopyright

INSHALLAH

by

Alys Einion

HONNO MODERN FICTION

This book is dedicated to the women in my life, who have taught me so much.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am blessed to be loved and cherished by some wonderful people, but this book would never have existed without the support of my doctoral supervisors, Tiffany Atkinson and Louise Holmwood-Marshall. Thanks both, you were a great team.

More than anyone else, I would like to thank Claire, for believing in me.

Baraa

Today, I will marry the man who raped me.

A free woman never plans an escape route. I made this choice freely, the sun and the stars and the adolescent dreams of a girl grown up before her time notwithstanding. The weight in my hands belies the softness of the fabric that I lift, watching my face in the small bathroom mirror. My hands are covered in swathes of soft, black, silky stuff. This is the third time I’ve tried to do this. My eyes are huge in my face, with dark shadows under them. For the third time, I raise the headscarf and attempt to drape it correctly, folding the fabric around my head, across my shoulders, and securing it with pins around my face. Tight, tight, tighter, and the last part, the fold that covers my face, leaving only my eyes visible. This is me, invisible, on my wedding day.

At least I don’t have anyone expecting me to wear white. No bridesmaids, no hen party, no bevy of friends and family in false formality, just me and my husband to be, in this shabby student house, and the open door to the future. No need to escape, because this is my choice, isn’t it?

“Amanda?”

“Muhammed.”

For such a slight man, he has an amazing presence, filling the room from his place in the doorway. A warmth fills me, flooding my senses. I’ve been here before, alone, taking stock, thinking of my choices and their consequences. The veil drops from my face, leaving it exposed, framed by the black scarf. Turning, I smooth the fabric of my dress over my body, but there is no tell-tale bulge.

“You look lovely,” he says softly, his coal black eyes intense, shadowed. I want to keep looking into their depths, into the mysteries of his feelings for me. He says he loves me. It should be enough.

“Thanks. And thanks for the dress.” Thank you for paying for it, for recognising that even as hurried and low key as this formality is, a girl still wants a new dress on her wedding day.

This is the last day of my old life. I’ll emerge from the mosque today a Muslim wife, soon to be the mother of his children. Then he will take me away to a new world, a new life where I can begin again.

It is a long journey. With twins, I suppose it seems longer than it would for the unencumbered. Five month old twins, my sweet boys. Abdullah with his placid nature and Shahid, who never seems to sleep or feel the lack of it. As we near Riyadh, I see the few women on the flight putting on veils to cover their faces, and some even covering their eyes. I can’t bring myself to do it. How can they see, or breathe, with their entire heads covered like this? The interior of the plane is hot, and with the headscarf on, it feels hotter. I feel sweat forming across my forehead. Muhammed picks up theniqaband pushes it into my hand. “Put it on,” he says, and I do so. My breath is hot on the inside of the fabric, and I want to hyperventilate, to pant, to tear it off. But the eyes of those around me are no longer following my every move. I have become invisible.

All the long miles here I have been wondering, questioning, but it was too late, too late, the plane already in the air, the seatbelts fastened, my choices made beyond any chance of return. Will they hate me for these choices, my children, or will they be glad I gave them the life I felt they needed? I dare not question too closely. I am a naïve Welsh woman and my husband is taking me home to his family in Saudi Arabia and I don’t really know how it got this far. I am glad of the veil now. It means no one can see my face and the lingering doubts that claw at me.

Stepping off the plane is like stepping into the closeness of a sauna. Hot air like the intimate breath of a lover. Unrelenting. Two heavy babies and a carry-on bag, and all around me signs in the Arabic I have been struggling to learn to read and understand. We enter the terminal building, and the blessed relief of air conditioning. Muhammed strides forward, tall and proud in his whitethobe,seeming larger and more powerful here than he did in Western dress back home. “Wait here,” he says, none too gently, over his shoulder as I juggle the twins, Shahid grizzling loudly on my lap as I sit on a small bench, Abdullah asleep on my shoulder. I am tall and gangling, much taller than the few other women I see and many of the men. At least sitting down I am not so noticeable.

Muhammed speaks swiftly with the uniformed guards in customs, showing my passport. A female guard inabayaand veil is summoned as I wait, seated, in a small room. I take off theniqab. My identity checked, we proceed, with my face once more covered.

“Look down,” he tells me, watching my behaviour closely. “Don’t look people in the face. Don’t raise your eyes to meet them.” But my tallness, my towering presence, makes this demure stance ludicrous. I am downcast and still lofty. We move towards the baggage reclaim area, and Muhammed leads us to the right belt, then fetches a trolley. I am still holding both babies, and as the belt begins to move, I look desperately for the buggy.

Abdullah wakes, and starts to cry, and I lift him up and try to talk and laugh him into quietness, but his eyes widen as he looks at my face, and he turns red and screams even louder. Of course, he has never seen me like this, with my face covered by black, only my eyes showing. To him I must seem like a stranger. This is my fault. I should have worn a veil before, regularly, so he would get used to it. Shahid wakes and joins his brother. They make an impressive noise.

Muhammed stands with the trolley, and I point to each bag as it finally appears. The buggy is here, and I unfold it and settle the boys in it. Abdullah stops crying, but Shahid still screams his protest.

“Come on,” Muhammed orders, and we leave, him with the trolley piled high with my mismatched luggage, me with the babies. I feel awkward and uncomfortable, and the scarf blocks my peripheral vision. It is hard to remember to keep my eyes downcast.

Outside in the crowded arrivals area, Muhammed waves and calls to someone.

“Muhammed.” It is a man a little taller than Muhammed, but very similar to him in features. Long white robe, and a scarf on his head. Like the men in the airport. They hug, chattering rapidly in a cascade of Arabic.

“Amanda, this is my brother, Ahmed,” Muhammed says. Am I supposed to look at him or not? I don’t know. How should I greet him? But Ahmed only nods at me, and gestures towards the exit, still speaking rapidly to Muhammed.

The doors open, and the heat hits me like a blow, and the brightness of the sun immediately makes my head ache. The smell of heat and exhaust, and something else, an almost spicy, organic smell, all suffocate me in the burning air. My mouth dries instantly. The heat closes in around me, like a vice, the air too hot to breathe, burning down my throat into my lungs. Panic rises, and I breathe slowly and try to calm myself. No one else seems bothered, but the children are crying. Breathing shallow, quick breaths, I murmur reassurances to them, try to calm them. The black fabric of my scarf and clothes heats immediately, and the light is blinding white and too bright to allow me to see properly at first. My eyes adjust at last, as shapes coalesce into recognisable forms.

The airport is a cluster of buildings, there is a lot of traffic noise, and a lot of people. Blindly, I follow the two men until we reach a car, and climb in with the babies. As Ahmed puts the buggy in the boot, I hear questions in his voice, even if I don’t understand the words. Muhammed answers, liquid language spilling forth, and I wish I could understand.

Too tired now to do anything but close my eyes and lean my head against the seat. The car smells of cigarettes and of the air outside, thick with the hot, strange smell. The boys are alert on my lap, looking out of the window with big, wide eyes. Shahid bangs on my chest as the car pulls out. Sweat is running down my back, my chest, and my neck. My mouth is so dry. I need water, and somewhere to lie down.

“Amanda,” Muhammed speaks over his shoulder, from the passenger seat in front of me. I look up. I must have nodded off. My mouth tastes foul, and the fabric of my clothes is hot and damp. Both boys are red-faced and sweaty, still looking around in wonder. Muhammed gestures to me to get out of the car. “Come on,” he says in a low, stern voice.

It is time. We have arrived. The sunlight blinds me again as I unfold myself from the seat and step out to greet his family.

A house, pale and sandy coloured. A big square house with small windows and a dark door, and then inside, welcome shadows, and cooler air, cool, cold, but scented with food smells and something else, something like incense. The sweat on my body chills suddenly as I stand on hard tiles in a dark hallway. Doors around me. Too tired, too tired, and the light and the smells are strange and wrong. Hot coffee and more spices and a sweet smell, like smoke.

“Muhammed…” I turn, but he is gone, and there are people around me, men and women and children. The boys are lifted from my arms. A small, wrinkled woman is standing before me, looking up at me with a fierce expression. I pull off the veil, and the headscarf.

“Hello,” I say, and smile.

“You call herKhala,” says a young woman appearing from a doorway to my left. “Hello Amanda, I am Layla. I am Muhammed’s sister, and your sister, now,” she smiles warmly. Huge brown eyes, and thick, long, chocolate brown hair, and soft, smooth cheeks and skin the colour of dark honey. A full, pink mouth. She’s beautiful. And I am sweaty and red in the face, and I know my hair is a mess, and there are shadows under my eyes. What are they thinking of me now?

“Khala,” she says again, gesturing to the older woman. “This is my mother. You should call her Khala. It means…auntie.”

“Khala.” I say experimentally, trying to make the ‘kh’ sound like she does, a liquid, throaty noise. “I’m very pleased to meet you both.” Fall back on good, British politeness, good manners. My mother always said manners make up for a great deal. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak any Arabic at all.”

Khala opens her mouth and a torrent of words pours forth. I shake my head. Tears threaten, I want to rest, please. Please let me rest.

“This way,” Layla says. She takes me to a quiet room, with a low couch like a sofa and thick rugs on the floor. The windows are curtained. It is dim and cool and welcoming after the heat and light, the colours muted. The boys are there, with a girl of about nine or ten. She looks like Layla, but her face is fuller, softer, and her eyes have a glint of something calculating as she looks me up and down.

“This is my sister, Gadria,” Layla says. “She is very pleased to meet her nephews at last, as am I.”

“Your English is very good.”

“Thank you. It is not so good, not all the time. But I have been practising, in school, ready for you to come.”

Khala appears, tiny, dark and swathed in a black dress that seems more menacing on her as the backdrop to her fierce expression. She wears a headscarf fastened tightly around her wrinkled, brown face. She moves fast, full of energy. She sets down a tray of a hot, dark drink in small glasses; the air is suddenly thick with a hot, steamy mint smell. My mouth waters. She hands me a glass of hot, mint tea. Why do they serve a hot drink in a hot country? But the drink cools me immediately. Layla pours me another glass.

More words I can’t understand. Khala picks up Shahid, who stares at her in fascination.

“My mother says, which is this one please?”

“This is Shahid,” I say. She hugs him, strokes his hair, and his cheek, kisses him, and croons at him, all the while talking in Arabic. After a moment, he smiles.

Layla is smiling too.

“And this is Abdullah, then.” Layla picks him up, ignoring Gadria’s complaints, and her mother sits down and takes him on her lap beside Shahid.

“Good, strong boys, she says,” Layla remarks, sitting beside her mother. “They are big, yes?”

“Yes, very big, they eat a lot!”

“But my brother said they…came early, not at the time they should?”

Khala is looking at me. Suspicion. She’s had twelve babies, for heaven’s sake, she would know. I told him this would happen.

“Yes, they were early, but they did very well, in the hospital, and afterwards, and they feed well, I think they have caught up.”

Suddenly Khala grabs my wrist, pulling it towards her, then my other, then shakes both my hands, raising her voice, shouting at me.

“What, what?” I look at Layla in confusion.

“You have not your wedding gold?”

“I don’t know, what do you mean, I have my ring.” I show Khala the ring, but she bats my hand away, still shouting. Layla hurries from the room, then returns.

“Muhammed did warn us, so my mother had these ready, but I think she expected you would have some, at least, yes?”

I have no idea what she is talking about.

Still gripping one of my arms, Khala takes a pile of gold bangles from Layla, and starts to try to force them over my knuckles and onto my wrists.

“Oh, please, no, don’t, thank you, I mean, thank you for the gift, but I really don’t like to wear bangles, I don’t like anything on my wrists.”

All three of them are staring at me. Layla translates, or at least, I hope she does.

Khala continues shoving the bracelet onto my wrist.

“Please, stop, I really hate having anything on my arms at all.”

“But you must,” Layla sounds upset. “You must, please, it is very important.”

“Why?”

“You are married.”

I stop fighting, and Khala relinquishes my hand. Layla helps me put the gold bracelets on. “Why must I wear them?”

“Oh, a bride, a woman, she marries and then…the next day, the morning after, the…”

She stops speaking, and her colour darkens. Blushing.

“Yes, ok, so after she is married, she has to wear bracelets?”

“Yes, it is a shame if you do not. If you do not, it is like you are not married. You do not…look married, to other people. It means shame.”

“Right. Like a wedding ring.”

She nods.

The metal is cold but warms immediately. It feels hard and bulky on my wrists, and my skin crawls. A shudder, suddenly, someone walking over my grave. The bracelets ring sibilantly when I move, a constant constriction on my flesh.

“Didn’t you have gold at your wedding?” Layla asks.

“No. It was a small wedding. I think Muhammed felt that there was no need.”

Pause. Translation. Response. Am I imagining that Khala sounds so annoyed?

“My mother will buy your dowry gold,” Layla says then. She is smiling. “She says, you must have your dowry gold as soon as possible. I can see you don’t understand so I will tell you more about it. When a bride is married, she has a dowry, this is her price, her worth, yes? It shows how important, how valuable she is, to her husband and his family, and to everyone else. Special gold jewellery is put on. This is the sign of her dowry. My mother will buy this for you.”

I know this is a gift, a kindness, really, but it seems more like she is saving face. Is it my fault I don’t know about these things?

“Please tell her, thank you. That is very kind.”

Waves of fatigue rush over me. “The babies fed recently, they will want to sleep,” I say to Layla. “And I am very, very tired. Is there somewhere I can go and rest?”

She looks worried. Then nods. “Yes, I will show your room.”

I pick up Shahid, and she takes Abdullah. I can’t distinguish one word from the conversation between her, Gadria and Khala. They don’t seem to pause anywhere. How does anyone learn to understand this language?

“This is your room,” Layla opens a door on the first floor. A large room, painted white, with closed blinds and a big, wide bed and a large white cot next to it. Abdullah is already drooping, and settles immediately. Shahid, for a wonder, starts to close his eyes too.

“Thank you Layla. Can you show me where the bathroom is, please?”

“Yes.” She shows me a room. “This is women’s bathroom. No men come here. The men’s bathroom is there.”

“Thank you for your help.”

She smiles, and when I come out of the bathroom, she is gone.

The bangles irritate my wrists as I lie down, sliding one hand under the pillow as I always do. The thin bands of metal press into my skin, an unpleasant feeling. The world spins away, and I know sleep is coming, at last.

In the dream the light is blinding me, and I can’t see, and vague shapes are beyond me, many shapes, all clad in strange colours, all faceless, shouting at me in a language I don’t recognise. Too many shapes, people pulling at me, someone is tying my wrists, shackling me, holding me, I can’t get away, let me go, let me go.

In the dream I am pinned. I am trapped, in a small place. I cannot get out.

Walking from the bedroom, down shadowed stairs, across echoing tile and shadow into a small room with closed blinds. Blinds, blinding, the sun glaring. In here the shadows. No one rushes, no urgency in step or voice or attitude of body. In their dresses Muhammed’s sisters seem like patchwork pieces against the colour of the room, contrasting and yet fitting. Belonging. In my denim skirt and peasant blouse I feel unfit for any of this. The street sounds are muted by shutters and drapes, the light too dim. I am lost in the shadows.

Layla appears, looking friendly. Gold combs hold her hair back, and her fresh face is eager.

“You are well? You are rested?”

“Where are the twins? And Muhammed?” I have no time for pleasantries. While I was sleeping someone has taken the babies from their cot, taken them who knows where.

“Our mother took them,” Layla explains. “She and Muhammed have taken them to see our father.”

“Taken them? Where?”

“Into the family room,” Layla explains kindly, but she looks alarmed. Yes, I think, you may speak English but you do not understand me.

Layla leads me through doors and past a carved wooden screen in the hallway, into a large room at the front of the house. It is lighter, and a large television stands in one corner, tuned to an Arabic news channel. The pitiful smattering of Arabic I had half-heartedly tried to learn is of no apparent use. The relentless linguistic stream is a thread of unintelligible syllables and unfamiliar sounds. How on earth am I ever to understand it?

Muhammed sits on one of the low couches. The relief at seeing his familiar face is like a rush of cool air.

“Muhammed,” I cross the room to him. He does not rise, or kiss me, or even hold out his hand to me as he would at home. Is this some cultural issue? But there is a faint smile as he looks at me, a smile I choose to interpret as kind. Perhaps he understands. “You slept a little?” he asks.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Rugs and cushions cover the floor. I smell coffee and cooking and cigarette smoke and other, indefinable smells. It is warm inside, but not hot. My babies are being handled by Muhammed’s father, who nods at me, and his mother, whose sharp voice spits out Arabic invective as I reach for Shahid.

“She says he is ok to stay with her,” Muhammed offers. “You can rest now.” I wait for him to reach out, to touch me, or to come and sit beside me as we sat, back home, sharing space, our bodies connecting. But he doesn’t.

“I’ll take him now,” I insist, reaching for Shahid, and for the moment she relents. I could have anticipated this, I suppose, the family wanting to monopolise the babies.

“You are feeling better?” Muhammed asks softly as I settle Shahid against my hip. He is eager to feed.

“I’m rested. I woke up, and the children were gone.”

He shrugs. “You’re with my family now. They are happy to help. You don’t have to do things by yourself now.”

“That’s good.” I try to swallow my unease and smile. “Should I feed them upstairs?” I ask him. Layla hovers in the doorway. Unspoken communication passes between them, and then Khala interrupts with another torrent of Arabic.

“You can use the…” Layla says a word in Arabic, it sounds like “gorfer fire” and I am led back to the small, shadowed room beyond the screen.

“This is…” she pauses, “a room for women. Do you understand?”

I nod. “Could you bring Abdullah to me? I expect he will want to feed too.”

“Yes, if you wish.” She leaves, and I settle Shahid to my breast, letting the blouse fall so that my flesh is not exposed. Layla returns, holding a sleepy Abdullah. On the low couch, I balance him under my arm and he latches on to the breast as if he hasn’t fed for a week.

“No men will disturb you here,” Layla says as I cover myself again, as modestly as possible with two babies at the breast.

“Thank you.”

She stays while I feed them. I feel at a loss, the pressure to make conversation growing between us.

“You have a big family?” she asks me at last.

“Just my mother, father, two sisters.”

“Two sisters, that is good. Are they married too?”

“My older sister is married, she has two children. I don’t see them much. They don’t live near.”

“Yes, sisters often move away,” Layla agrees. “My older sister lives with her husband in…” she says a word I don’t understand – maybe it is a place name. “And your other sister?”

“Oh, well, she lives with my parents.” I have no desire to try to explain her limitations to my new sister-in-law. Layla continues to sit with me, but I have run out of conversation.

Both babies sleep after their feed, and following Layla’s suggestion, I lie them on floor cushions and cover them with the light cotton sheet she brings.

“It is time to cook the meal,” Layla says then. She walks away.

Am I to follow? It seems so. But in the hallway I run into Khala, who starts chattering at me, but it all sounds like “yik, yik yik”. Layla has disappeared. Khala starts trying to turn me around, her arms full of black cloth. She is shoving the clothes at me. “El bisi,el bisi!”

“What do you want me to do?” I shout at last, annoyed.

Layla sticks her head out of the kitchen door. “She wants you to put those clothes on.”

“Oh.” I take the things. The black dress or coat thing that the women wear is long but not long enough. A good three inches of ankle show below the hem. Khala tuts and fusses around me, and somehow I get the scarf fastened. Then a veil, over my head, completely obscuring my face. I can hardly see.

“El basee a kibba, see, shukti?”

“This is ridiculous,” I say, lifting the veil. She yanks it down again. I pull it up. Like some old comedy film, we could go on like this forever.

“Amanda, you must learn to wear these things, my mother is showing you what the women wear here.” It’s Muhammed. He is resplendent in a long white robe, with a red and white headscarf held in place by a thick black ring of fabric. He looks so very different in this outfit, it’s as if I don’t know him. “It is not so difficult. My mother is trying to help you.”

“Ok, ok,” I say, pulling the veil down again. “But I can’t see anything, Muhammed! Muhammed?”

But it seems he’s gone again.

The kitchen is brightly lit and filled with modern equipment. Khala stands at a long counter, and with abrupt gestures I am put to work chopping onions and tomatoes. Large pans cover the stove, and the smell of hot oil and onions makes me feel disjointed. Layla, Gadria and Khala move in unconscious harmony.

At last, Layla says, “Amanda, why are you wearing these in here?” She pulls at the veil.

“Your mum told me to put them on.”

She bursts out laughing, as does Gadria. I feel hot and bothered, as I take off the yards of black fabric.

“She only wanted you to try it on. Hang it in the hall,” Layla says, still laughing.

I do so, blushing furiously, feeling foolish and awkward. I have to try. I have to do this. I have nowhere else to go. My children need this, a father, family, a sense of place and security. All the things I fear I cannot give them alone. So despite my embarrassment I slip back through the shadowy hallway and into the brighter kitchen. The windows are frosted glass, and I feel strange as I keep trying to look out. Like some insect drawn to the light, my eyes return to the windows over and over again, rebuffed by the opaqueness.

“Can we not open the window?” I ask Layla as I help with the dishes piled up in the sink.

“We do not open the windows,” Layla says. “Has Muhammed not explained? Women must not be seen.”

“Oh.” Why didn’t he tell me?

I turn to Khala, trying to make conversation, a connection. “There is so much I don’t know. I hope you can help me learn how you do things here.”

Layla translates. Khala says something and turns away. Layla shrugs at me. “She is sad to have missed your wedding. That is not how we do things here. A wedding without family, it is a… Oh, I don’t know the word.”

I think I can guess it. Shameful. Muhammed was wrong. We haven’t fooled anyone.

Khala doesn’t like me. She speaks her anger though short, impatient gestures, darting looks and a determination to ignore me. Perhaps she is justified – I am an unknown quantity, untested, and essentially alien. I run and jump and move, answering to her shoves and gestures, tears pricking at my eyelids, bewildered. There are smells of spices, and the heat from the stove, and vegetables that look unfamiliar to my eyes, bigger and brighter and strange in shape and texture. At last she gestures me to the sink again, where I wash dishes and pots and knives, greasy bowls and spoons.

In a flurry of activity she serves the meal, gesturing me to follow her into another room, where the food is laid out on big platters on the floor. I am about to sit, when Layla says, “Amanda, we must wash first.” I follow her and go into the bathroom to wash my hands. When I come out, she points back to the other room.

Everyone sits around the cloth. I fold myself awkwardly onto the floor.

The lamb stew is unfamiliar, chewy and spiced, greasy and sour. I take pains not to eat with my left hand, remembering what Muhammed told me about Muslim customs. I try to copy Layla, who takes pieces of bread, folds them around the meat and vegetables, and eats in quick, economic movements. I feel clumsy and awkward.

Gadria watches me during the meal. I stop eating. I can understand her being curious, but why is she staring so much? I smile at her. Her expression doesn’t change.

“Amanda, we must help to clean up,” Layla says afterwards.

“I am going to see to the children,” I say, rising. Khala starts saying something, but I walk away. It’s too much. The voices follow me down the hall, raised, angry maybe? I’m so tired still. I don’t understand what is happening. In the other room, I watch the boys sleeping and try not to cry, but the hot tears come. When they wake, I feed them again, until they start fussing and crying and chattering. Layla appears, smiling. “Let me take them, yes? Then you can rest?”

“Thank you.”

“My brother says you should go and lie down, maybe, if you are not so well.” I nod. Yes, a sleep would help perhaps. In the dim bedroom I drift in and out for hours, not noticing when someone puts the twins to bed in the big cot, until I wake, my body attuned to a different diurnal rhythm, to find Muhammed sleeping next to me.

In the warm darkness I listen to my sons breathing and wait for sleep. Minutes inch by, and I cannot relax or close my eyes. Muhammed sleeps next to me, unaware, snoring a little. I feel tense, stretched thin and tight like wire about to snap.

Then it comes, from inside me, starting down in my belly, in the place where the skin has tightened back to almost normal. It is a scream, a rabid, wild thing of a scream, and it builds and grows and rushes through me. But I stop it at the last moment, trap it with lips and teeth and will. I have come here to be what I must be. This is my life now.

A hand reaches for me in the darkness, and the scream retreats, secretes itself. The hand is on my breasts, then my belly, then clasping my hand and guiding it to Muhammed’s erection. With practised fingers I encourage him, and he seizes me, all hot breath and sudden sweat. I open for him, wanting to feel him inside me. Roughly, he enters, but I feel nothing, only his body heat and weight on top of my body. I sink into the too-soft mattress, and disappear.

Hawā

The dark before dawn. An eerie sound permeates the room, distant yet insistent, penetrating. Men’s voices, ululating and exhorting. It is theadhan, the call to prayer. This is the first prayer of the day, the dawn prayer, I remember. I perform the necessary cleansing, trying to remember the right order of things. I kneel and stand and kneel, and mumble my way through the Arabic words. The babies wake too, and their whimpering escalates until I can stop and pick them up. Khala appears as if by magic, and sweeps up Abdullah into her arms, gesturing for me to follow with Shahid. In the bathroom she starts to strip them off and wash them with brisk efficiency.

Suddenly, a shout, a strange,lalalalatype noise, like a wail, bursts from her, and she is shouting in my face again. She looks at both boys, shouting at me, gesticulating.

“What the hell is wrong?” I demand, frightened now. What’s the matter? Why is she so upset?

Layla appears, looking sleepy, in a long robe. “What is it, Umma?” Then she stops on the threshold, and looks aghast. “Oh, oh,” she looks at me. “They are not…you have not…” She gestures to the boys.

“Oh, yes, they’re not circumcised. I never got around to it. I didn’t know where to go or who to ask. I assumed Muhammed would sort it out once we got here.”

Khala is shouting again, and the boys are crying now in the confusion. Their grandmother ignores the screams, and has them dressed and bundled up within a few minutes, but she doesn’t stop shouting.

“Please, tell her I am sorry, but how was I supposed to know? Muhammed just left me there on my own with the babies, and no one told me what to do!”

Layla translates, looking upset, but her mother storms off down the corridor. I can hear the ranting continue all the way down the stairs. Other doors in the house start to open. We’ve woken the entire household.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Layla.

“She’s upset,” she replies, and hurries after her mother.

I wish I could talk to Khala. Settled into the women’s salon with a cup of strong tea, I feed the twins and long to speak to someone, anyone. To whom can I go to for advice about this great task of motherhood? I want to know if I should start weaning them, and how. What foods should I start with? They are over five months old now, and the time is surely coming when I should start? How can I communicate my concerns to her? But she has brought up seven children, and given birth to twelve, or so Muhammed said. Surely she is the best person to ask?

I stroke Abdullah’s soft hair and look into his huge, dark eyes. His skin is the colour of my tea; brown, but milky, softened, diluted. His hair, and Shahid’s, is thick and dark. He looks like no one in my family. I play with both of them, gently, fingers and toes, and elicit smiles that are a great relief after so many tears. Will they adjust to all the noise here? Again, I question my decision. I want desperately to go home. But I have nowhere else to go. I have to make this work.

No sign of Muhammed. He was gone when I got dressed and he hasn’t come into this room where I feed the boys. Layla said it was a room for women. Does that mean he will never come in here? I settle Abdullah on the floor again, and carry Shahid with me on my hip as I explore my new home, in search of my husband.

It seems there are two areas to the house. There is the public area, in which the men sit, in a large, long room filled with light. The windows in every room are frosted glass, and thick curtains cover them, especially at night. During the day the curtains are drawn back, to show net curtains and to let in light. This is the family room, where the men sit and watch television, and talk when there are visitors. In the central hallway, a screen divides the public area of the house from the rooms which the women inhabit. Behind this, I move between the women’s sitting room, with its small television and perpetually covered windows, and the kitchen. Between the kitchen and the men’s room is the dining room, with doors at either end. Muhammed is nowhere to be seen. Where has he gone?

In the kitchen, I offer to help. Khala’s small, black eyes look me up and down, and she barks instructions at me. Layla translates.

“Chop onion,” she says. I obey. “Wash these,” she says. I do as I’m told. Layla holds Shahid and croons at him in Arabic. He watches her distrustfully, then, for some unknown reason, relaxes, and cuddles in to her body. She smiles down at him. Layla is fifteen, and unmarried. She is still at school. When she looks at Shahid, her whole face softens. I stir pots which smell savoury and spicy, and strangely sweet, and wonder what on earth it is I am cooking.

Breakfast is an unfamiliar combination of a dish with onions and tomatoes, and some sort of porridgey, yoghurty thing with fruit and nuts in it. It is sweet, and has a strange texture, but smells appealing with cinnamon and other spices. I am hungry enough to eat almost anything. The ritual of the meal is mystifying. First, Khala takes a long sheet of plastic from a roll in the kitchen, and lays it out on the floor, spreading it flat. Then she places a large white tablecloth on top of it. Flat bread on a plate is set down, and the large platters of food. Spoons are placed around the centre.

Sometime during the cooking the men have all appeared. “Muhammed,” I say when I see him, waiting for some gesture from him. He smiles but looks distant. “What is it?”

“I…” I don’t know what to say. Khala says something to him, and he nods. “You are helping my mother, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The men sit, then after some discussion, the women join them. We use the bread to dip up food with our fingers, or just our fingers. Again I find this all very difficult, and envy the ease with which they scoop and eat, with an innate grace. I eat a little, Abdullah on my lap, Shahid on Layla’s lap.

Khala starts the questions again, as soon as the meal is finished.

“When were they born?” she asks, and again I give her the date we had agreed on, to make it seem that they were conceived after we were married. There is some discussion amongst the family. It gets quite heated. I watch their faces, trying to divine somehow what they are talking about. At last, responding to an order from her mother, Layla turns to me.

“They are planning a wedding for you. Our mother says that there must be some sort of celebration, to welcome you, and so our family can meet you.”

“Is that really necessary? It’s been over a year now, and we already have children.”

Layla translates. I don’t need to understand the words to get the meaning of Khala’s response. She is emphatic and her vituperative response alarms me. Abdullah starts crying on my lap.

“You will need to be introduced to the family,” Layla insists.

“I can understand that, but we are already married. It seems stupid to have another wedding. Muhammed,” I turn to him, “Can you just explain that I don’t see any reason to have a wedding?”

The raised voices and shouting are disturbing, and Abdullah continues to cry. I stand, awkwardly, and try to leave the room, but Khala rises too, and hurries up to me, almost spitting the words at me. She takes Abdullah, and holds him up to her shoulder, patting his back, and then turns her back to me. She returns to her seat, her staccato gestures and invective continuing.

“Why is everyone so angry?” I demand of Muhammed, who seems to be ignoring the interaction.

“What?” He looks at his mother. “No one’s angry.”

“But everyone is shouting.”

He shrugs. “They’re just talking.”

“Well, let them know that I do not want a wedding, and as far as I’m concerned, there won’t be one.”

“Amanda, this is my family. These are traditions for us.”

“I know. But we are married, we have children, if she wants to do something can’t she just have a party for us or something!”

“You don’t understand.”

“I don’t. Not at all. But I am not going to be put on display so she can hang more bloody gold on me and make me a spectacle!”

“You should not be so ungrateful.”

“I am not ungrateful, Muhammed.” My voice softens. “I am very grateful and glad to make a new start with you here. I am glad that my sons will have your family around and I am happy to be here with you. Please just explain to your mother that I don’t like being the centre of attention and there’s no need to go to such expense, ok?”

“I will tell her,” he says, but his face has darkened and I know he is not happy to have to deny his mother her wishes. The conversation which follows between them is unfathomable to me, so I go back into the women’s room with Shahid, and set him down. Soon he is rolling on the floor and playing with his toes. He smiles at me. I tickle him and then pick him up. He laughs, and that makes me laugh too. Back on the floor he lies content, eyes starting to close.

Back in the dining room I fold myself back onto the floor. Abdullah reaches for the piece of bread I pick up, so I give it to him, and he starts gumming it enthusiastically. The food has cooled a lot, and the sweet thing is almost pleasant. I have a few more mouthfuls. Then I realise Khala is speaking to me.

“What does she want?” I ask Layla. There is more Arabic.

“We have to make the tea,” Layla says. “Come, I will show you. Leave Abdullah here.”

Back in the kitchen, we make sweet tea with mint, and bring it into the dining room with small, clear glass cups on a tray. Then Layla instructs me to clear the dishes, and then orders me around the kitchen. She watches while I do most of the cleaning up, using Arabic phrases and then translating them, trying to get me to understand. “I am going to school now,” she says, finally. She leaves without another word. I feel lost. What do I do now? Should I clean the stove, or clean something else? What do I do with the food waste?

Soon enough, Khala comes back in, and starts on me again, pointing, pushing, and shouting the words in Arabic. Slowly I figure out what she wants me to do, but obviously not well enough or fast enough for her. She pushes me out of the way frequently to demonstrate how she wants things done. “Nubthathee!” she says, again, and again, as I wipe surfaces, wash dishes, sweep and mop the floor. “Nubthathee.” I think it means clean.

At last, exhausted and confused, some time alone with the boys in the women’s room. Muhammed has gone out, somewhere. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye. The twins want to play, and when I turn the TV on, I find with relief that alongside the Arabic channel you can get an American news channel. It is a pleasure to listen to English.

Theadhansounds, mid-morning, I think. Khala communicates her wish that I should pray with her. First, she instructs me in how to carry out the ritualised cleansing, and which parts of the body should be washed, in what order, and I follow, corrected constantly. Then the praying. She indicates the direction, and I follow her lead, and kneel and stand and prostrate myself as she does, mumbling the words I have learned. I can’t find the calm centre that I reached when praying alone. Again, I feel awkward, ill-prepared, an ill-fitting garment. Nothing I do is as it should be done. I stumble over the words, start to stand when I should be kneeling, kneel when I should be forward on my face. She is judging everything about me, it seems, and in every respect, I fall short of what she would expect in a daughter-in-law.

Just when I start to relax, there she is again, my diminutive mother-in-law, shouting and gesticulating and physically pushing me around until I do what she wants. I help with washing, hanging the clothes to dry in a small courtyard. The boys start to cry, I can hear them in the little sitting room, their howls escalating in volume. I run to fetch them, but as I leave, she grabs me and shakes her hand in my face. I pull away. She marches off.

I make up two bottles, determined to carry on mixing the feeding and moving towards weaning them, but when I bring them into the women’s room, where Shahid has been screaming as loud as he can for the last ten minutes, she is there, with her blouse lifted up, bringing him to her breast. Abdullah has quieted, and is watching them both with his big, dark eyes.

“What are you doing?” I ask, in English, of course. She looks at me. She doesn’t understand my shock. I reach for him, and pull him away. “Don’t do that!”

This is followed by another stream of Arabic. I think she is telling me how to calm the baby down, or maybe that she was happy to do it. Or maybe she is saying that she has had twelve babies and is a much better mother than me. I don’t know. But I do have two babies to feed. So I hand her one of the bottles and give Shahid back to her, then pick up Abdullah, and hold him close, offering him the other bottle.

After this feed, it is time to cook again. In the absence of an interpreter, I stand, non-plussed, after the boys are set down on the floor cushions, sleepy and complacent. In a stream of language, with some prodding and poking, Khala herds me back to the kitchen.

I wash my hands, and she begins showing me how to cook. “Bhusal,” she says, handing me a large white onion. I take it. She gestures to a chopping board. Ok. So far so good.

“Sikeen,” Khala says then, and hands me a knife.

Right…

“Ghuttee!” she orders, gesturing to the knife and the onion. Not so difficult. But I slice the onion and she wants it chopped, so she shows me, nearly taking my finger off in the process. She hands me more, and I chop them, feeling slow and clumsy. The onions go into the big pan on the stove. The sharp, onion smell fills my senses, and my eyes start to water.

“Dhomatt,” she shows me a bowl of tomatoes. “Ghutee!”

“Like this?” I say, making neat slices. She smacks my hand away, and shows me again. I follow her lead.

And so it goes on.

“Dijaj”. Chicken.

“Zate.” Oil.

“Shai.” Tea.

“Ghara.” Coffee.

“Tsuckra.” Sugar.

My head aches with trying to remember the words. It feels like we are cooking for an army, the quantities are so large.

Chicken, cooked with spices that I must grind in a mortar and pestle first. Rice. Salad. Round flat breads. She tells me the name of each dish several times as we cook. The chicken dish isAl-Kabsa. The counters are too low for me. The pots she uses are huge. The fat she uses for frying comes out of a plastic bucket. The great big pot she puts the rice in is too heavy for me to lift, but she hefts it easily from the sink and places it on the stove. The burning spice smell makes my nose itch; the onions keep my eyes watering. She says a lot of things to me, none of which I understand. I feel tired, and out of sorts. I want to sit down, and I feel hot and bothered and irritated. But she doesn’t stop, taking out odd-looking dark lumps which smell vaguely of citrus, shoving them at me, and then stirring the rice. “Laymun aswad,” Khala says, pointing at the black lumps. I nod. She makes a salad, ordering me to do most of the chopping. I am surprised at such a meal in the middle of the day.

A glance at the clock tells me it is just after two. A short while later Layla reappears, home from school, and Gadria with her. Layla takes off herabayaand veil and comes into the kitchen, looking around for what needs to be done. Her mother immediately starts a rapid torrent of conversation, which she returns. Then she turns to me. “She wants to ask you if you have any other clothes.”

“Of course I have other clothes,” I say, feeling myself blush. Layla looks at me curiously. “I just wore this because the skirt is long and Muhammed said…”