When the Haboob Sings

America

HOW DID I get here? How did I become a prisoner in a cell? This here cell, my transient home. This here cell, which I will try to describe to you. People treasure descriptions, do they not? I have been here in this place long enough to describe it pretty well for years to come, and it is easy for me to do so now, as I am here, inside it. In this cell with its rusty bars, a window I cannot reach, and the sun’s rays beating down on the dust-filled corner of the room. This cell, with its leaky faucet, a sink with peeling skin beneath its waist, a squat toilet, a showerhead dangling from a plastic hose, grey-tiled floors (or maybe faded black), and smelling of urine and Dettol.

Here I stand, kneel, lie down, and walk around, with fists clenched and muscles tightened, glancing around at my home of the last two months with cockroaches for roommates. Last night there were two. One of them is dead now: I beat it with the shoe of the cleaning lady who brought my dinner last night. She was too scared to kill it herself. The other one is lingering around, its antennae swaying, dancing to a beat I cannot hear, making its way slowly, ever so slowly, toward my bare feet that are much in need of a pedicure, might I add. I need a shoe. The wardens took my slippers away when I first came here. Do not ask me why. They can hardly be used as weapons. And besides, I would not use a weapon even if I had one; violence is not in my core. At least, I do not think it is. I read once that we all have violent tendencies, and in moments of survival or protecting our loved ones, they rage to the surface. I do not want to think about that right now.

I am less restless than I was earlier this morning. I always wake up nervous here, with heart palpitations, sweaty skin, and even tremors sometimes. I am well taken care of, but the sense of anticipation of leaving this hellhole grips me each and every day. However, after I splash my face with water and brush my teeth, I feel better. Something about water, something.

Here I am sitting on the makeshift bed, a mattress with holes, a haven for bedbugs. Oh, in that case, I must have more unwelcome roommates! There is a sorry excuse for a bedcover and a thin, flimsy off-white bed-sheet. The pillow has no case. There is a prayer mat, with a praying robe that I have not touched, but on nights when I feel cold, I slip into the robe and sleep in it.

Here I am, bent over, and resting my chin upon my knees. I am too scared to kill the cockroach today. That is the thing when it comes to killing insects, for me at least: sometimes I have the courage, and sometimes the fear is overwhelming. I can feel the fear reverberating inside of me. Constricted throat, shortness of breath, yes. But I can pat myself on the back for having killed one of them. That is an accomplishment. It is now a battle between this one and me. I am vying for sole occupancy.

Once in a while, a mouse passes by. On nights when my chest hurts because the anxiety is overwhelming, I wait for the pitter-patter of feet, not out of loneliness, but out of sheer terror that I will wake up to a mouse staring me in the face. Best to stay awake, I tell myself when the paranoia engulfs me. But sleep always wins in the end, and so far I have not woken up to a mouse on my bed, thank God.

I watch the cockroach walk slowly, stop, walk slowly, stop, walk—nay, glide—toward the bars and make its exit. At this moment in time, a cockroach has more dignity, more freedom than me. A cockroach has the right to leave. And I, a human being, am confined to a cell, at the mercy and whim of my fellow men.

But let me ask again, for your sake, of course: how did I get here?

Well, to answer that, we must go back in time. Say, two years? Yes, that is about right. That is not when the writing started. Oh, I have not told you about that yet. Sorry, my brain is so scattered sometimes. I have mentioned the insects and the mouse before I even introduced myself. Yes, I am a writer, a published one at that: I have not written novels or poetry, or any kind of book so to speak, but I have written articles. I started writing when I was fourteen, and publicly when I was twenty-five, for local magazines and newspapers. (Be patient, I will hint at my country of birth soon.) I am now thirty-two. That is eighteen years of writing, and seven—going on eight—years of sharing my work with the public. I know age matters. I will be the first to admit that I always want to know someone’s age. Whether or not a person’s age should matter, though, is beyond me: I have never found an answer that did not lead to another question. But I never ask an adult. It is considered impolite, no? Anyway, I am thirty-two years of age, and it was only a couple of years ago when my writing started getting attention.

Before becoming famous (or infamous, depending on your view of my story), I wrote about the environment, I wrote about hobbies, I wrote about voting, and I wrote about education. But something inside me, or outside me, was shaping my destiny, nudging me toward the path of writing about subjects that were unwritten about where I live. However, at the time, I was too afraid to venture beyond what was considered safe writing. All my articles had been safe, but it was that day in a room filled with men that things changed. Perhaps you are wondering what is unsafe in terms of writing? Well, in my country, it is best to stay away from two topics: politics and religion. Unless, of course, you are showering politicians and religion with praise. To be fair, my first foray into unsafe writing was neither about politics nor religion, but about gender equality. Still, in a patriarchy, anything regarding women is teetering on the domain of politics and religion.

So, in just one night I went from being a safe writer to an unsafe one. There I was, sitting at an all-male gathering, the only woman. I heard them speak of the weather—yawn!—poets—interesting—and women’s stupidity—the nerve!—and I inhaled loudly. And exhaled even more loudly. A couple of men glared at me, as though challenging me to say something. My husband, Adam, shot me a look. He wanted me to be quiet. I closed my eyes. I kept them shut for a bit too long.

But before I relate what happened next, I know you want to imagine the surroundings, but I must confess that I do not notice my surroundings much. And it was two years ago. It was easy for me to describe the cell because I live here now. Perhaps I am self-engrossed. Or maybe it is because I have always associated homes and places and even people with feelings. I am good at remembering how I felt, what a person said, or how he or she moved. I can even imitate someone’s voice and gestures. I often entertained my family by imitating others, but I stopped years ago when my family bought a parrot that embarrassed me in front of an aunt by imitating me imitating her. The parrot’s imitations of me imitating my aunt included shrill laughter and chortling. The aunt did not say anything, but she flushed and the consequent silence was too awkward for everyone at the family gathering. The parrot died years later, and we never bought another one.

Yes, voices and gestures come easy to me. But describing a scene, clothing, or a location? Not so easy. I once visited a house with black walls. Jet black walls. Now that is not hard to describe. Just imagine black walls. Not the entire house, just a room in it. I mean, how can anyone forget that? And how can anyone not notice black walls? I was at the house of a girl called Rayan who I was paired with—was it eleventh or twelfth grade?—in Biology. We were studying the habits of rats, and she told me to meet her at her house after school. And that is when she led me to her room with the black walls.

Anyway, back to that all-male gathering. To this day, I have no idea if they wanted me to hear or if they accidentally mentioned it, forgetting a woman was in the room. But come on. How could they not have noticed me? I was an anomaly. You see, these gatherings are our society’s versions of man caves. Most houses have an extension built especially for men to meet and discuss politics. Women are not generally welcome, although years ago my father mentioned a woman who held co-ed gatherings. Iconic, huh?

I felt awkward the moment my husband and I greeted the men in the cave. One man refused to shake my hand. I asked my husband later whether it was because he was religious, and he nodded.

When the conversation turned to women’s stupidity, things turned ugly fast. I, the writer, who does not speak much in public, had to say something, right? I mean, I could not just sit there while they insulted women.

There they were, dressed in long white robes from head to toe, with white headgear secured in place by black rings on the crowns of their heads. There they were, snickering about a woman candidate in Parliament, scoffing about women who think they are fit to make legislation. There they were, mocking a female singer. She wears tight shirts to flaunt her breasts and gain fans, one said. There they were, agreeing among themselves that women were their downfall and that they wished the female population would stick to shopping, raising children, and wearing makeup while leaving men to business, politics, and running the world. There they were, and there I was, fuming.

I pointed my finger at them and began to address the all-male congregation. And to the best of my memory, I said something like this: How dare you! Women have been in Parliament for over eleven years here, and it is about time you got used to it! Why are you clinging so tightly to the patriarchy? What intimidates you about women? Why are you competing with us? Without women, you would not exist . . .

And I blah blah blahed my way through, my face hot and red, beads of sweat traveling down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I could not stop blah blahing, even when the room turned black for a millisecond (have you ever been so nervous you could not see?), even when I had to catch my breath. I, the introvert, the shy one, expressed myself in a room filled with men. The tirade went on for about a minute or two. A few were looking at the ground, ashamed at themselves, others were looking at the ground, ashamed of me, but most of them were glaring menacingly at me or casting glances at my husband, Adam, waiting for him to react, to say something, anything.

I was about to go on when one of the men coughed, cleared his throat, and addressed Adam: If you can’t control your wife, you shouldn’t bring her here.

My name is Dunya, I said.

He did not even turn to look at me but added, facing my husband, In fact, I think you should take her home now. You are always welcome here, but she isn’t.

I was not even supposed to go to this all-male gathering, but my husband and I were invited to his parents’ house for dinner, and since they lived near the men’s parlor, and we lived across town, he suggested I accompany him so he did not have to come back home again to pick me up. I told him I could drive myself and meet him at his parents’ place, but he wanted me to accompany him.

I answered, But they’re all men. I remember saying that. I remember not wanting to go. I should have listened to my intuition.

Adam told me, We’ll only be there for half an hour. I have to show my face. And you’re with me, so nobody can say anything. I’ve known these guys forever. They won’t mind.

When we arrived, I was still reticent. I insisted that I could wait in the car, but we both agreed it was too hot, and that was that. After we left, he ignored me in the car. And we had a tense dinner at his parents’ house. When we got back home, we got into an argument. I asked him why he did not defend me in front of his friends, and he told me I did not understand the men of our culture. He did not want to be referred to as a steering wheel, a derogatory term reserved for men who had no personality and were under the thumbs of their wives. After we argued back and forth, back and forth, he said he was tired, and he kissed my forehead (I remember that clearly) and we went to sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt compelled to do something. Confronting the men at the gathering had not been enough for me. And that was that. I wrote about what had happened the night before. I, the writer, the contributor, who had stuck to op-eds related to news articles and safe subjects, shifted toward a social issue, and though I had not yet broached an absolutely unsafe topic, I knew this would ruffle feathers. I wrote and wrote about gender inequality, double standards, hypocrisy, judgment. I, the writer, used the pen, or the keyboard in this case, and poured my heart into that article. Not to condemn men, but to beg them to stop: stop harassing us, stop imposing, stop dictating, stop berating, stop intimidating, stop controlling, just stop, stop, stop!

I, the writer, expanded the article and wrote of the exhaustion of women all across the globe protecting ourselves, carrying sprays in our tiny purses, and constantly looking over our shoulders. I wrote about the men who looked down on us and subjugated us, who abused us and discriminated against us. And, to be fair, I thanked the men who supported us, the men who, like us, were tired of the patriarchy.

MY MAILBOX quickly filled up. Men criticizing, men supporting, women agreeing, whining about their husbands, their veils, their woes, their pressures, women condemning me, fans agreeing, followers lamenting, and I, the writer, responded to each and every one of them. I remember one person tagged me on social media exclaiming her excitement that I, the writer, was humble enough to respond to her and thank her for her support. Her post was an excerpt of my response—without my permission, but who was I to say anything to someone who was publicly praising me?—and the caption was filled with hearts and more hearts. Although there were only about twenty emails, it was my first taste of celebrity, and the attention galvanized me.

The week after the gender equality article, I wrote an article asking why children of local women married to expatriates had no citizenship. Why, I wrote, did local men who married women from other countries automatically pass their citizenship on to their offspring? I added that it was unfair of the state to ask potential spouses from other religions to convert to Islam. Why should anyone interfere in something as personal as marriage? If women here want to get married to others outside the faith, I wrote, that should be between them and their husbands. Why does the state prefer that both parents are Muslim? Why can a local Muslim man marry a Christian or a Jew, but a local Muslim woman can only marry a Muslim?

Here is something I did not include in the article: I know a local Muslim woman who married a Christian. He pretended to convert to have their marriage recognized by the state, but he remained a devout Christian. People were asking whether this man, in his early thirties, got circumcised! The bride said yes, but that was an outright lie. It does not bother anyone whether a person has truly converted or not. In any case, he becomes a poster child for conversion, another headcount in the statistics of Muslims in the world.

Here is another thing I did not include in the article: My friend Layla has an aunt who married a Coptic man from Egypt. Her aunt had secretly become a Coptic as well. During one of the gentleman’s visits back home to Alexandria, as he was praying in a church, bombs exploded. At the hospital, he begged the doctors not to reveal his identity for fear of backlash from his wife’s family. He came back here without a limb and to this day everyone thinks he had been in a car accident. Can you imagine not being able to recount such an important incident in one’s life? To suffer in silence? To have to live a lie like that because one’s religion might be offensive or against the marital law? Layla’s aunt only revealed the truth to Layla, and when Layla relayed the story to me I could not stop crying.

Anyway, back to my article, the one that touched a nerve among the public, the one about marrying outside the faith. A renowned local cleric berated me on social media. He addressed me by name and tagged me, stating in his post: Dunya, the reason the state interferes with the religion of the spouse is because everyone in the world should be Muslim. And that is that. Be careful, you are treading on the grounds of infidels.

And just like that, I was famous. A popular local cleric was aware of my writing and had addressed me directly. He knew who I was. This was a man known for his radical views. And now his Twitter feed was flooded with comments liking what he said to me. I waited a couple of hours to respond and finally commented: Thank you for your view. I appreciate your feedback.

To which he responded: I have a sermon on Thursday about the beauty of Islam. Please join us. It will enlighten you.

And I replied: Thank you for the invitation. Although I did not add: I can’t make it. Or, I won’t be there, not interested. I did not need someone telling me about the beauty of religion. Especially not someone with radical views.

I got to reading emails. I glimpsed through some of them and read others intently. But the response that struck out for me the most was from someone who called himself