God in Pink Page 3

Shams comes toward us in her nightgown, smiling as she takes our plates and returns to the kitchen. I remember when I first met her. She had thick red hair and didn’t cover it with a hejab then. She was beautiful. Her father and my father had been friends for years. I wanted to marry her, but it was against Sharia; she had to be properly covered before I could call her my wife. At first, she declined my proposal. After we were married, I told her that she could not eat at the same table as me. She said that when she was growing up, her family did not separate the men and women at meals, so it bothered her; I think it may still, but it is a tradition passed down from my great-great-grandfather. We accept it for what it is. I cannot break with tradition.

  Jaffar grabs his bag, which contains a copy of the Qur’an and some notebooks. I taught him to write down anything that he finds important in my lectures. Then he memorizes the notes so that he will never forget them.

  The two of us leave and walk toward the mosque, only a few blocks away from our house. We are close enough that I don’t have to worry about a car, bicycle, or any other form of transportation. As we approach the mosque, the sun illuminates the oval silver-plated dome; we enter through the ceramic-decorated door, unlike the others. Removing my shoes, I hand them to Jaffar, who places them inside a cabinet. The faithful are already gathered, seated on the floor; when I clear my throat, all of them rise. I walk toward the wall in front of them and sit against it. There are still ten minutes until my lecture begins. But for the first time in a long time, I feel unprepared. I look at the ceiling, knowing that all eyes are on me.

  This morning, I have not yet taken my place in what I call the king’s chair. It is the same one that my father sat in before me and his father before that. But I feel unworthy and overwhelmed. Beads of sweat form on my forehead. What will I tell my people today? I look at the men looking back at me; in my mind, all of them are wearing werdy. Which one of them wrote the letter? Which one of them will reveal his identity? I glance at my watch, then finally stand up and make my way toward the king’s chair. It is rather ordinary, yet to the other Muslimeen of the mosque, it has special significance. Only I am allowed to climb the five steps and sit upon it.

  Looking out at a sea of silent, staring eyes, I feel unworthy. I cannot read them; I cannot differentiate between who is true and honourable and who is not.

  Jaffar is the key to unlocking my mind and freeing it. I look at him and smile, then begin with my salaams. The worshippers return the salaams in loud voices. I debate whether or not to talk about the lawats. La!

  “No!” a voice screams in my ear. I look around, trying to find the source.

  “I am right here,” it says. I turn to the right and see a woman dressed in a black burka. All the men fade away. The room is empty now, except for the woman and me.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Don’t you know me, Ammar?”

  “Who are you?” I repeat.

  She laughs, and the sound echoes throughout the mosque.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know you.”

  “I am Abaddon. Don’t you remember me?”

  “No. I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Strange. I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”

  “But …” I look around. “Where did everyone go?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

  “Homosexuality, is it now?”

  I look at her in surprise. Turning away, I see two men kissing. I shut my eyes. Abaddon laughs.

  “Do you see what I mean?” she asks. She comes close and touches my lips, caresses my beard.

  I push her away, saying, “I’m a married man.”

  She backs away, smiles, and says, “Yes, you’re a rejjal. Do you want everyone to think otherwise?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “All the rumours, all the gossip. Is it worth it?”

  “No!”

  “If you have any respect for God, then forget about it. You are not to give a lecture on homosexuality. It is wrong; it is forbidden.” Then she is gone in a cloud of darkness.

  A chill crawls down my spine. Cold and shivering, I see eyes staring, judging me, mocking, laughing. I stand up from the king’s chair and stumble down the steps. Jaffar approaches me, saying something I don’t understand. Someone hands me a glass of water. I struggle to breathe, feeling numb. As I shut my eyes, I hear one word echoing softly in my head … werdy. Pink.

  I sit at my desk, hard at work solving mathematics problems. But no one seems to be solving any of my problems. Mohammed enters my bedroom without knocking. Looking up, I think I can read a smile on his face. It involves a girl, no doubt.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, feigning innocence.

  He hands me three photographs of young women, all of them wearing makeup and beauty-pageant smiles.

  He sits down next to me. “What do you think?”

  I look at the pictures. Nothing comes to mind.

  “This one’s name is Yassmine.”

  She is named after a beautiful flower. I suppose I must be her Aladdin, holding a magic lamp, fulfilling her wishes and mine. And we’ll live happily ever after on a heavenly carpet ride. But if I had a magic lamp, I’d be soaring high in the sky, and when I fell, it would be into the arms of a man, not her.

  “What do you think?” he persists.

  I am thinking of another life, a different future, with someone else.

  “She’s nice.”

  He pauses, expecting more. But what else does he want to hear?

  “That’s it?”

  I shrug.

  “Do you like her?”

  “It’s just a picture.”

  He grins. “I figured that you’d say that. Noor and I can set up a date. We can all go out with her family, and you can meet her.”

  This is how people date in Iraq. The man and woman are both accompanied by their families, and they all meet together at a restaurant. The prospective couple can go off for a walk by themselves, but in the end, they will each leave with their respective families. This passes for courting here.

  “What do you say?” Mohammed urges as he takes the photograph from me. “She comes from a good family. She’s graduating soon.”

  “But I haven’t graduated myself.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “How am I going to feed her and our twenty children?” My sarcasm silences him. I look into his eyes and sense anger.

  “Do you want this or not?”

  I hesitate, thinking. Do I want to marry a woman and make children with her and then realize that I can’t be with her anymore because I’ve fallen in love with a man?

  “Answer me.”

  I sigh. “You never answered my question.”

  “What question?”

  “How can I support my family when I’m still a student?”

  He smiles and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about that. I will take care of you.”

  My brother seems to have a solution for everything. That annoys me.

  “I don’t want to depend on you, Mohammed. I want to make it on my own.”

  “Get a job, then.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You can be my assistant. I need someone to help me mark exams and assignments.”

  I feel myself frowning. I should have known that Mohammed would somehow link any job opportunity for me to him. It seems that whatever I do, wherever I go, I’ll never get away.

  Noor knocks on the door. “What are you two talking about?” she asks.

  “I’m showing Ramy the photos,” Mohammed says. “But he’s not being very reasonable.”

  “Mohammed, let me talk with Ramy,” she says. He gives the photos to Noor and leaves the room.

  “Ramy, do you want to get married?” Noor asks.

  The bluntness of her question throws me off. I hesitate, then say, “Of course, Noor. Why would you ask that?”


  She hands the photos to me, and I look through them again. I wonder who they are and what their stories are. Leaning over and kissing my cheek, she says, “Don’t worry. Marriage will protect you.”

  Allahu-Akbar. I’m being carried by two men from the mosque. I’m not myself, and I can’t see clearly. Everything’s out of whack; I feel out of control. I keep hearing a voice, haunting me, telling me something I can’t understand. Then another voice comes, then another. “Allahu-Akbar … Allahu-Akbar …” I know that Allah is the greatest. Have I ever questioned that? Suddenly the voices become one and all I hear is “pink.” I don’t understand.

  As the men take me home and place me on my bed, I glance at Shams, who is crying in distress. I remember when Shams’ father told me that she did not want to marry me. She did not want to live as a conservative religious woman. I accepted her decision. But later, my family and I were invited for dinner at her family’s home. The men and women sat in separate rooms. When I left the dining room to go to the washroom, Shams passed by me. I was brave enough to say to her, “I know you don’t think highly of me. But I hope your opinion changes. I am not a horrible man. I have the respect of your family and hope you will give me a chance.” Shams’ face reddened as I spoke those words, then she walked away. Now I see in her face that she hasn’t changed at all.

  I look toward the doorway. The Angel Gabriel is there. He smiles and says, “We need to be alone now.” I wonder if the men helping me have heard him, but they don’t seem to notice.

  “Thank you very much, brothers,” I say. “I’m fine now. Please leave us.”

  Shams comes toward me, still crying. “Are you sure, darling?” She wipes the sweat off my brow.

  I look at the impatient Gabriel, who whispers, “Now.” What does this apparition, this Gabriel, want from me?

  “Please, can you leave me? I need time alone,” I say to my lovely Shams. She looks at me with surprise.

  When she leaves the room, I feel relieved. Gabriel then approaches, hovering over me to kiss my forehead.

  “How are you feeling now?” he asks.

  “I am well, alhamdulillah, thank you.”

  “I see you met her today.”

  “Who?”

  “Abaddon.”

  “You know each other?”

  “Of course.”

  “How?”

  “Close your eyes.”

  I obey.

  “Open your eyes,” he says a moment later.

  I’m no longer lying on my bed. I’m ethereal now, moving with freedom and ease. I melt as I move through the sun and then turn to ice as I float through the Arctic, becoming water as I swim in the ocean. And then I am dead, floating motionless upon the Dead Sea. Finally, my last breath having escaped me, my soul is transported to the heavens. I gaze down at mountains of stone and pools of water—raw nature. Subhanallah. Is this my new world? Or am I only a visitor?

  Looking down again, I spot Gabriel and Abaddon standing in front of the Tree of Knowledge.

  “What do we do now, Lord?” Gabriel asks.

  Abaddon interjects, “Please don’t listen to him. He just wants to spread love and peace. But he is ignoring Your original intentions.”

  Who are they talking to?

  Gabriel turns to Abaddon, pausing before saying in a quiet voice, “Don’t you see there’s been a lot of confusion, a lot of bloodshed, violence …”

  She snorts, then turns to the Tree and says, “Gabriel wants to take Your place, Lord. He ignores all Your books and wants to redefine knowledge.”

  “No! That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

  She turns to face him. “You are lying, Gabriel.”

  “I am not lying! Can’t you see what is happening to the world?”

  Abaddon pauses for a moment, nods, and then looks back to the Tree. “Many people are transgressing, are manipulating the truth. Your truth.”

  Gabriel pushes Abaddon aside. “What is the truth?” he asks the Tree. “Why is it muddled with ambiguity?”

  Abaddon says, “Do you hear what Gabriel is insinuating? He is denying Your truth!”

  What is the truth? I wonder. I remain still and quiet, attempting to unravel the hakika, to uncover the mystery. And yet I feel restless.

  “You love each and every human being. That is the truth, the one truth,” Gabriel says before abruptly flying up next to me. He grabs my arm and pulls hard. Again I melt, then freeze, then turn to water. And then I fall to nar jahanam, to Hell.

  I open my eyes and suddenly I am back on my bed. Gabriel is seated beside me, running his werdy fingers through my hair.

  “Tell me I was dreaming. Helm.”

  He smiles, kisses my forehead again, and says, “No, you weren’t dreaming. Did you see how Abaddon tries to manipulate God?”

  “You were speaking to a tree.”

  “We were speaking to God.”

  “Where was He?”

  “God is everywhere, all around us. Can you believe that witch? Promoting hatred and violence.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Homosexuality.”

  “Oh, astaghfirullah.”

  Gabriel smiles, then says, “Why is it that people have such strong feelings on the topic?”

  “Because it is forbidden, it is morally wrong. It is haram.”

  “What is wrong with two people falling in love?”

  “There is nothing wrong with love.”

  “Then what is wrong with homosexuality?”

  I look away, praying quietly. Please, Allah, forgive our sins.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “I’m praying.”

  “Oh, come on, Ammar, why can’t you wake up to reality?”

  “I don’t want to hear about it any longer. I don’t want my son or anyone else influenced by this. I don’t want to help the man who sent me the letter. I don’t want to be associated with this. It’s sick. It’s disgusting.”

  Gabriel looks down, shaking his head slowly. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  I am about to say something, but Gabriel disappears again.

  I often wonder if I was meant to be in another body, to be someone else, or from a different family. Why did God choose me to be me? Looking out the window at the moon, I see Ali. I loved him more than anyone in the world, but does love mean anything? What’s the point? The moon will disappear as always; the sun will come and go … Ah, why can’t I sleep? I grab the clock and throw it to the floor.

  In a few hours, I will get up, eat eggs and beans with Mohammed, and in the car, he will talk about marriage and women, as usual. I will nod as he natters on. Yes, Mohammed, I am going to marry; yes, Mohammed, I like women; yes, Mohammed, I am not lotee. Yes, Mohammed.

  During class, I listen to the mathematics teacher drone on. Is he passionate about his profession? Does he even care? After half an hour of banal instruction he assigns us partners to work on equations. Mine is Waleed, who sits at the desk in front of me. Waleed never brushes his teeth, so his breath always smells like a mix of cigarettes and tea. It is unpleasant, but I force myself to ignore it. As we work together, I think of Ali, my old classroom partner, and his magical kisses.

  I am relieved when the class is over. In the cafeteria, I get a sandwich and sit by myself on one of the benches. I hear footsteps approaching and turn to see a handsome young man with a guitar. He sits down beside me.

  “Hello,” he says. I cannot help staring at his face, which reminds me of Omar Khorshid, the late Egyptian movie star and guitarist. The young man is dressed in jeans and a tight T-shirt. Who is he? I’ve never seen him around campus.

  “Hi,” I croak, then blush. He must see how nervous I am. I clear my throat and say, “I’m sorry. I think I almost choked on my sandwich.”

  He grins and starts tinkering with this guitar, then launches into a beautiful tune. I’ve heard it before, but I can’t recall the name. He stops playing and raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Ple
ase continue,” I say.

  As he plays, he asks, “What is your name?”

  “Ramy.”

  He laughs and says, “It rhymes with my name.”

  “Which is …?”

  “Sammy.” He glances at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “Where to?” I ask.

  “I’m meeting some friends for a practice.”

  I want to ask him if I can go with him, but refrain. Instead, I say, “I hope to see you around.”

  He leaves and I’m alone again.

  I’ve just been visited by an angel named Sammy.

  Masha’Allah. Today is Friday, and every Friday, I feel special, like Allah has forgiven all my sins. After I wash my body with water, I am as clean and pure as a malaak. Sitting at the table, my son and I eat breakfast—eggs with beef sausages. Shams is in the kitchen, eating alone. Just after we were married, when I told her that she had to wear the hejab, she was displeased. But, as with our separation at meal times, she eventually agreed to it.

  At the beginning of our relationship, we often argued about the smallest things because she could not accept the fact that there were rules that were bestowed upon us by God that we had to follow. Often, she would forget that she was married to a sheikh. One time she wanted to go out with her sister without a man to accompany them for protection. I did not allow that. She wouldn’t speak to me for days. Thank God everything changed after the birth of Jaffar. We put our differences aside and focused on raising our son.

  I sometimes feel like Job with his children. He loved his children more than any other living thing. But like Job, I fear that I will someday lose my son. That’s life: sooner or later, we’re all going to die. Odd that I only have these kinds of thoughts on the holy day of Friday. As I take a bite of sausage, I have a strange feeling that this could be my last one … or Jaffar’s. And I’m afraid.

  Leaving my breakfast unfinished, I go to the living room and begin to read Qur’anic verses to bring some comfort to my soul. But sadness won’t leave me alone; it overwhelms me. I finally make a decision.

  When Jaffar and I arrive at the mosque, I try to forget the awkwardness of what happened last time; try to pretend it never took place. I sit and quietly read the Qur’an for the ten minutes before my lecture.