God in Pink Read online

  “I don’t believe that. I’ve heard that many of the Hadiths of the Prophet were made up by radicals who hated homosexuals.”

  “You’re not willing to listen, are you? Your eyes and ears are closed to the words of God.” Sheikh Ammar shakes his head, clearly frustrated with me. He’s just like the rest of them. He spouts what he’s been taught without question. In school, they taught us critical thinking. What good is it here?

  “What about me, then?” I ask.

  “I told you, change your ways.”

  “But I can’t! I was born this way!”

  He smiles at me benevolently. “Nobody is born that way,” he says.

  “You’re just like them,” I mutter.

  “When a majority of people believes in a similar ideology, it might have some truth to it.”

  “But if God made me and all others like me …”

  “I don’t know what to say to that. You’ll have to ask Him on Judgment Day.”

  “Why bother? We lotees are going to hell, aren’t we?” My emotions are starting to take over. Stand your ground, I tell myself.

  “Look, God is most merciful. You can still change, and I’m sure He will open a new page with you.”

  “You want me to turn myself into someone I’m not. It is not easy.”

  “Why not? People can change.”

  “Yes. And I’ve struggled my whole life, trying to change. But I now know that I am who I am. I can’t do it anymore.”

  “So you’ve given up?”

  “No, it’s not that—”

  “Then what?”

  I pause. “God made me this way. Since the day I was born, I was different. But you and everyone else around me won’t see it.”

  “And you don’t understand that westerners are obsessed with perversions such as homosexuality, adultery, material wealth, and other filth.”

  I laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” he says indignantly.

  “You’re blaming it on westerners now?”

  “Ever since America invaded our country, we hear more and more about sex, nudity, superficial values. And yes, lotees. Before, these things didn’t exist here.”

  “Why can’t you see it as freedom?” I look up at the doorway. His son is again standing there, not quite out of sight.

  The sheikh chuckles. “Brother, everyone is free to do whatever they want. You can sleep with a cow behind closed doors and no one will know. Except God, of course. He is all-knowing and all-seeing. Islam is here to guide you to the right path.”

  “I know, I know. It’s all about the right path, the afterlife. But what about here and now? How can I marry a woman knowing we will both be miserable for the rest of our lives?”

  “But you haven’t even tried. You might find you like being married and raising a family.”

  I haven’t tried. But why should I, when I know it isn’t right? “Look, I need your help …” I’m tired of arguing with him.

  “I’m trying to help you, Ramy, but you’re not listening.”

  “But what you’re telling me is no help at all.” I fight back the tears.

  As Ammar reaches for a biscuit, he catches sight of his son. “Jaffar! Didn’t I tell you to go to your room?”

  “Baba, I …” Jaffar says as he takes a few steps forward.

  “Go to your room!” the sheikh bellows. The boy runs down the hall.

  “Is this conversation going anywhere?” the sheikh asks.

  I take a deep breath. “Sir, this is my final question to you: why can’t I be a devout Muslim and be true to myself at the same time?”

  “Because being devout isn’t simply about praying. It’s also about abiding by the Qur’an and fulfilling God’s requirements.”

  “But who says the Qur’an tells us God’s requirements?”

  “Are you questioning the Qur’an now?” Sheikh Ammar’s face is turning a deep red.

  I’ve gone too far. I get up, nod to the sheikh, and leave.

  When Ramy is gone, I am relieved. It feels like I’ve lost a year from my life. I sit back on the couch and sigh, exhausted. He wants my help but refuses it. He does not seem to understand that homosexuality is wrong. And Ramy wants to pray to God when he is committing the worst sin of all.

  “Ammar, what happened?” Shams asks. Without her hejab now, she is seated on the couch across from me where Ramy had been. “Why was that man so unhappy when he left?”

  “Were you listening?”

  “No. But he looked as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders when he walked out.”

  “Never mind. Forget about him. He just needed some help.”

  “But you didn’t help him, did you?”

  “No,” I say, sighing again. “I think this man is lost. He doesn’t know who he is. He just needs to reach out to God and He will help him.”

  “Can you not help him, habibi? God will reward you. I just know it.”

  “Baba, I’m sorry,” Jaffar’s voice intrudes.

  I sit up quickly and say, “How many times have I told you to go to your room?”

  “What did that man want from you?”

  “Go to your room, I say.” I am not in the mood; my thoughts are muddled.

  Jaffar leaves. I have hurt my son, the son whom I love with all my heart and soul. I lie back again on the couch, trying to rest. But I am haunted by Ramy’s words. How can I make him understand that homosexuality is forbidden?

  “You can’t!” a voice intrudes again. I open my eyes; Gabriel flutters around me.

  “I didn’t know that mindreading was a skill of yours,” I respond.

  “You’ve made a mistake.”

  “Maybe in your eyes, but God will thank me for this later.”

  “You refused to help that young man!”

  “I didn’t refuse to help him,” I say angrily. “He refused to listen.”

  “And you are always right.”

  Abaddon appears across from Gabriel. She glares at him, saying, “Don’t try to persuade him otherwise. He’s on the right path.”

  “Are you going to let Abaddon control you?” Gabriel asks.

  “Of course not. I make my own decisions.”

  “Ramy needed your help,” Gabriel says. “He wanted to find a way to balance his religion and his sexuality. A way to live contentedly with both.”

  “That can’t be done. You’re either a devout Muslim or you’re not,” Abaddon says.

  Gabriel points a finger at her. “What do you know? Just go away. I’m talking to Ammar.”

  “Ammar, don’t listen to Gabriel. He’s homosexual himself.” Abbadon has a smirk on her face.

  Gabriel slaps Abaddon with a wing. Her burka hides her reaction. Then she begins to laugh.

  “She is a fake and a liar, Ammar. Don’t listen to her!” Gabriel flaps his wings in emphasis.

  “I don’t want to listen to either of you. Just leave me alone!” I plead.

  “No, I will never leave you alone.” Gabriel leans over and kisses me on the lips.

  Suddenly I am transported to a room I’ve never seen before, in the presence of a beautiful young man. His hands are tied to the bedposts, and he is naked. I try to close my eyes, but can’t. I try to back away, but something pushes me toward him.

  “What are you doing, Gabriel? Let me go!” I call out.

  The young man says something in Hebrew that I don’t understand. I realize he is one of the men of Lot. Still trying to back away, I am forced to move closer and closer to him.

  “Let me go, Gabriel!” I shriek.

  I look down; I am naked now too. I try to cover my genitals, but my hands won’t move. My penis is stirring; I try to calm it. Suddenly, I’m pressing against the young man and entering him; he whimpers. After a few thrusts, I feel the need to cum. I have never felt this before in my life, not even with Shams. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. When I open them, I am back home, with Gabriel hovering nearby.

  “Did you enjoy it?” he asks
.

  “No!”

  Gabriel chuckles. “I know you did,” he says.

  I sit on my bed and imagine Jameela next to me. She looks at me expectantly. I’m not sure what to say or do. Should I help her take her clothes off? Does she want me to kiss her on the lips? She wouldn’t be asking for too much; I could pretend … But how can you pretend to love someone, to feign passion when it isn’t there?

  A knock on the door disturbs my thoughts. “Come in,” I say.

  Noor has a smile on her face. “Are you ready for tonight?”

  Right. I am so ready. I can’t wait to see the woman of my life, the one I’m going to marry and make babies with. “Yes,” I sigh.

  “What are you going to wear?”

  “The suit that Mohammed lent me the last time, I guess.”

  “No, no.” She thinks for a second. “I’ll take you shopping for a new one.”

  “What’s the point? You’d be wasting your money.”

  “You don’t understand. This is a very special day for all of us. My son is getting engaged!” I am her son on a day like this.

  The two of us take a taxi to the local market area, close to where Sammy works. I want to go find him, but now I am at Noor’s mercy. Everything is cheap here—grocery stores, clothing stores, shops that sell hejabs. She and I go into a run-down shop where Mohammed once bought a suit. The owner greets us enthusiastically.

  “How is your husband?” he asks. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “He’s well. It is close to the end of the school year, so he’s busy grading exams,” Noor responds.

  I have exams of my own coming up, but I haven’t been studying. But do I care? No. So many people graduate with useless degrees and cannot find work in the end. The only people able to get good jobs are the children of the wealthy and powerful. I can see where my future is headed—struggling to make a living in a tedious, low-paying government job. We all thought that, after the war, work would be plentiful and wages would increase. We couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I sit down on a chair as Noor looks for the right colour shirt for me. “What do you think?” she asks, holding up two.

  I shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m not the one marrying Jameela, habibi. Make up your mind.”

  The clerk measures me for size. I feel like a doll being played with as he gently pulls and tugs me this way and that. Before too long, I am outfitted with a new suit, shirt, and tie. When I come out of the dressing room, Noor says, “You look so handsome.” But all I feel is dread. After making the purchase, Noor and I walk down the street, past a variety of other shops. I look in the direction of the grocery store where Sammy works, then stare ahead. Perhaps the sheikh is right. Perhaps I haven’t been trying hard enough.

  “Jameela is a good woman,” I suddenly say to Noor.

  “Yes, she is,” Noor responds. “She comes from a good family. I’m sure you two will be happy.”

  At home, I take a shower and get ready. The time has come, and I feel nervous. As we drive away, I study the exterior of the house, as if this is the last time I will see it. I feel as if I’m on my way to an execution.

  When we arrive at Jameela’s house, Mohammed and Noor flank me as we walk toward the door. After exchanging pleasantries with Jameela’s father, we go inside and wait for Jameela and her mother. Noor, next to me, notices my nervousness. She can’t possibly know how miserable I am. I try to hide my misery as she pats my hand.

  “You’ll be fine. God is with you,” she whispers. It feels as if she is turning me over to enemy troops. Snap out of it, I tell myself, it’s not that bad. Finally, Jameela and Najwa appear; Jameela is wearing a red and white dress, and her head is covered with a bright white hejab. Najwa welcomes us, but I feel as though Jameela’s eyes look at me with pity.

  Mohammed gets to his feet. “It’s our honour and pleasure, sir, to know your family,” he says to Ghassan. It is customary to praise and compliment the bride’s family on these occasions. After a long preamble, he announces: “My brother, Ramy, wishes to bring our families together.”

  I do? You know the truth, Mohammed, I think but do not say. “We would be honoured—Ramy would be honoured,” Mohammed continues, “to take your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  I glance over at Jameela, who does not look back at me.

  “Thank you for your kind words, sir,” her father replies. “My family would be honoured to give our daughter to your brother in marriage.”

  Noor and Jameela’s mother smile at each other and begin to chant halaheel in celebration.

  “As you know, Ramy will be graduating in a few months,” Mohammed says. “Then, if God is willing, they will be married.”

  Najwa kisses her daughter, who manages a weak smile.

  Mohammed pulls me to my feet and hugs me tight. “Congratulations, habibi,” he says.

  I smile but am fighting back tears. Why can’t I stand up for myself now, like I did with Sheikh Ammar?

  Bismillah Al Rahman Al Raheem. I sit down on the couch, reading the Qur’an, haunted by sinful images that refuse to leave me. I stop reading to pray to God to brush the devil off my shoulders, trying to return to the holy man I present myself to be. But images of being with the beautiful young man flood my mind. I pray to God to take these thoughts away. Closing the Qur’an, I kiss the cover and then go to Jaffar’s room.

  “Come in,” he says when I knock.

  I enter, smiling. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading the Qur’an, Baba. As is your wish.”

  I nod. “That’s true. But if you don’t want to read it now, that’s okay too.” I reach down and give him a hug. “Jaffar, I wanted to ask you what you heard when that young man was visiting today.”

  “I didn’t hear anything, Baba,” he says, not looking at me.

  “Jaffar, good Muslims don’t lie to their fathers,” I admonish. I sit down next to him.

  After several moments of silence, he says, “Baba, why is that man homosexual?”

  So he did hear our conversation. “Jaffar, he is sinful and dirty and should be ashamed of himself.”

  “But why?”

  “Because God forbids his actions.” I recite a relevant verse from the Qur’an and then say, “I don’t want you to worry about him. He has made mistakes, and we should pray to God to forgive him and help him to become pure and holy again.”

  “Okay,” Jaffar says.

  I kiss my son’s forehead and leave his room. Walking down the hallway, I hear sounds coming from my bedroom. It must be Shams. I’m sure she’s still awake. She never sleeps until I am in bed next to her. When I get to the room, she is sitting at her dressing table looking into the mirror, putting makeup on her face.

  “I thought I’d surprise you,” Shams says with a smile.

  “Ah,” I say, returning the smile. She stands up, kisses me, and nudges me toward the bed. She gets on top of me, her long red hair falling over my face as she kisses me again. She pulls my head toward her chest. I am sweating, my heart is racing. I feel inexplicably frightened, trapped. Shams takes my hand and moves it downward. I am not enjoying this. I suddenly flash on the handsome young man and, before I know it, cum before entering her. She climbs off me, looking disappointed.

  I know she wants me to give her pleasure. But I can’t. I am a failure as a husband.

  I enter the shop. It’s the first time I’ve been in a place like this. A friend told me about it. I look around at the different types of weapons on display, from guns to knives to machetes. Shit, this is terrifying. The shopkeeper, a man a few years older than me with thick facial hair, stands next to the display cabinet. There is no one else in the store.

  “Can I help you?” His smile makes me uneasy.

  I hesitate. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. “I’m looking for a gun …” I say hesitantly.

  “Are you looking for a specific type?”

  “No, just a regular one. The cheapest you’ve got.”
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  Without questioning the reasons for my interest, the shopkeeper unlocks the cabinet and takes out a Cobra CA380.

  “How much is it?”

  “The price is negotiable,” he says, that smile creeping across his face again.

  I take a deep breath and pull out a watch that Mohammed once gave me.

  “This is all I’ve got,” I say. He takes hold of it and examines it.

  “It’s a nice watch,” he comments.

  “I got it as a birthday present.”

  “Like I care?” he says. The smile is gone now. But he agrees to the exchange, and before long I am out on the sidewalk with the Cobra and some ammunition. I take a deep breath. Do I really want to do this?

  Back home, Noor is in the kitchen, cooking. I find Mohammed reading in the living room.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say.

  “What about?”

  “You’re my older brother, no?” I begin.

  He chuckles. “Is this some sort of a joke?”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Why?”

  “How could you do this to me?”

  Mohammed gives me a confused look. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “How could you force me to marry Jameela?”

  “I want the best for you, Ramy. I know you’ll be happy with her.”

  “You think so? How the hell can you be so sure?”

  I put my hand in my pocket and wrap it around the gun. Mohammed sees me fiddling.

  “What do you have in there?” he asks.

  My body begins to shake. “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten, Mohammed. How old were you then? Sixteen? I remember that day very well.”

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

  I pull out the gun. Mohammed is startled. I hear Noor gasp from beyond the doorway. “What are you doing, Ramy? Are you crazy?” she cries out.

  “All these years, and I didn’t say anything …”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I aim the gun at Mohammed. “Now I don’t care anymore.”

  “Calm down, Ramy! You’re overreacting!”

  “Remember what Father did to me? You knew all along but didn’t say anything. I remember telling you about it, but you said to keep quiet for the love of Allah.”